#ignore that this is the same art I used last year I didn’t have time to make new art for this post hehehe 😋

[crazysnor1ax]

Attention, survivors! It’s time!

Starvetober 2024 is here!

It’s time to submit YOUR ideas for this year’s prompt list! With your help I’ll be able to make a prompt list that’ll be posted around mid-September. All the criteria for prompts are listed in the linked form below. I hope you all are excited as I am!

Throw your prompts my way here!

[sea-jello]

uhh hi morro enjoyers i finally finishing crystalized and started dragons rising specifically euphrasias episode and morrotober is soon so i’m coming back. do you remember me

no color idk just in case the colors clash horrendously

[tonycries]

The Way You Kiss Me - G.S.

Synopsis. The four times Satoru tries really hard not to kiss you - his best friend’s pretty younger sister. And the one time he doesn’t.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! Suguru’s sister! reader, childhood enemies to lovers, PINING Satoru, like really really disgustingly down bad, creampíe, oral (fem receiving), pússytalking, needy JEALOUS! Satoru, running away from it, spítting, punching is Suguru’s love language, mentions of aIcohol, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 7.4k (That’s wild)

A/N. BOO! Surprise upload. This was so fun to write omg.

“You sure this is how the grown-ups get married?”

“Duh, I know everything.”

“Nuh uh, Toru.”

“Yuh uh!”

The first time Gojo Satoru kissed you was underneath that dingy playground slide that the two of you always raced to after elementary school. 

Usually, your older brother, Suguru, would walk home alongside you two - but this time, he’d just so happened to have been held back for throwing paper planes at the teacher that day.

A sign from the universe, Satoru internally celebrated, something he’d learned from those sappy romance novels his mother left lying around the house. No matter that he was the one that made those planes.

You were six back then, standing in front of a determined Satoru - reaching up on his tip-toes, face pink, smelling of those cheap strawberry lollipops he’d sneak into class and taunt you with. At the much older and wiser age of seven, he’d insisted on being the first one to lean in.

Just barely even grazing your dramatically puckered lips before-

Satoru learned two things that fateful afternoon:

Even as a seven-year-old, Suguru’s punches really hurt. 

Never mess with you. Anyone but you. 

Life only seemed to go downhill from there - because that last lesson was proving to be hard along the years. Really. Fucking. Hard.

Little did Satoru know that this would be the start of some strange, unpredictable little dance of push and pull. No, you definitely weren’t his wife. Nor were you exactly best friends - not really, that spot was reserved for your brother. But you didn’t think you could ever be just that either.

And the punch that’d knocked his wobbly tooth out onto the playground floor that day was a painful reminder that whatever that was - whatever weird thoughts he had later in middle school about how you’d tasted like candy - didn’t matter. No matter how part some tucked-away little part of him wanted it to.

Hell, eleven years later and Satoru still can’t walk around that familiar block without feeling slightly queasy. Which is why, after that failed first kiss, he knew there wouldn’t be a second. 

Instead, he settles back to teasing your pouty self, pushing all your buttons, tugging on those cute dresses you wore. Face burning so strangely with- humiliation? when you bickered right back, calling his haircut a “tragic attempt at modern art.”

“So you’re saying I look like art?” A gangly, now-seventeen Satoru blocks the bustling high school hallway, ignoring the bell. Grin only growing at your frustrated huff, he half-jokes, “Aww, if you’re that soft on me, sweetheart, maybe we should go to prom tog-”

You slam your locker, effectively shutting both it and Satoru at the same time. “I’d rather go with Yaga.”

“...you would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would- Sugu–!”

And all Suguru can do is wrap two hands around his neck, mock-choking himself, wondering if it was really too late to embrace a quiet life as a monk. “You’ll both be MLA cited in my farewell note.”

He was used to it, though, forced to watch all this chaos since quickly mending his friendship with Satoru over ice cream the day after the punch. Convinced that this was some punishment for a past life’s misdeed.

With a squawk of protest, Satoru’s turning back to you, eyes crinkling with a hint of mischief you knew too well, “Would not.”

Your face burns, “Would to, Toru.”

You didn’t go with Yaga. but Satoru didn’t exactly count that as a win in his books, either, because you did show up that night hanging off the arm of some jerk from the football team. 

And there you were, all dolled up - which he very objectively noted - way too prettily for some bastard like him. Stars in your eyes, and everything he couldn’t have in that smile. 

Everything. 

Way too gorgeous, even when he finds you sitting outside the gymnasium later on in the night. Too busy bawling your mascara off to even throw out your usual greeting insult his way. Murmuring out wetly about “that asshole” and how he humiliated you by stranding you in the middle of the dance floor for someone else. 

“Well, he was a jerk anyway. Even Yaga would’ve been better, hell, I-” Satoru stops short to his horror at the way you only cry harder.

Way too irresistible, especially as his body moves before his mind - holding out an open hand before he knows it. “I’m a much better dancer than him and you.” And oh Satoru will forever remember the way his heart lurches as you blink your teary eyes up in confusion, “Well, aren’t ya gonna take up the challenge?”

Weirdly, it wasn’t weird at all. 

If anything, you had to hold back your laughter the entire time at the way the great “campus sweetheart” Gojo Satoru was so on edge.

Just a friend comforting a friend, right?

So why was he avoiding your gaze with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, summer blue eyes pointedly trained right over your head. That pretty pink blush dusting his cheeks reflecting the hands hovering in midair over your waist. So close - and yet, fear in each and every turn and swirl.

Yours were searing into his broad shoulders as you tried to guide him to the muffled music from inside. And shit.

That night ended with a second kiss. 

You don’t know who leaned in first, just that Satoru’s soft lips were just fleeting on your glossy ones - barely even a touch. And that shit shit shit- this was Satoru. This was you. 

Everything. 

But it seems that every time Satoru was about to kiss you dangerously close to the way some tiny, forbidden part of his heart wanted to - the universe throws an obstacle at him. An obstacle that was six feet and named “Suguru”, currently running at break-neck speed out of the gym.

“MOVE YOUR ASSES!” he cackles, “THE FOOTBALL TEAM ISN’T TOO HAPPY ABOUT ME BREAKING THEIR STAR PLAYER’S NOSE.”

And not a word is uttered about the kiss as the three of you speed out of the school parking lot in Suguru’s busted-up black hellcat, the wind mussing up the hairstyle that took Satoru over two hours to perfect. Sneaking in glances at the sight of you singing along at the top of your lungs to some overplayed pop song on the radio. 

He learns another two things that night:

Apparently, Suguru’s right hook still really fucking hurt. And thank god for tonight’s casualties of noses, because it was a wonder that he didn’t look too hard at how close Satoru was with you. 

He didn’t…dislike the feeling of your lips on his. And judging by the way you meet his eyes in the rearview mirror - you didn’t either.

It’s mainly that last one that makes him gulp.

Neither of you remember the third kiss - though, Satoru’s sure that at least 80% of Shoko’s instagram followers did.

According to a very hungover Shoko, and the many, many forms of documentation, it had happened on the New Year’s eve during your third year in university. In which you were much more used to the raging parties that would be hosted at Suguru’s apartment, and only slightly less intimidated by them.

“And you’re a lightweight too, dumbass. You were gone.” Shoko sighs from across the café table, eye bags deeper than the last time he’d seen her. “Like gone gone.”

God, what a way to start the year.

Satoru bites back a remark about how “gone” Shoko herself had been. Sitting up straight in his seat, regret immediately hitting his senses faster than the guilty throbbing at his temples. He winces, managing out a semi-disbelieving groan of, “Gone gone?”

And she’s only nodding wearily, subconsciously tapping out the rest of her cigarette ashes onto his untouched plate of sweet pastries. 

“I’m talking dancing on expensive coffee tables and fighting to stop you from giving everyone there a strip show.” She cracks a smirk through a waft of smoke, “Though, she would’ve loved that I’m sure.”

“Har har har, you’d make even Nanami laugh with that one.”

“Eugh, gross.” Shoko taps through her phone briefly, swirling it around to show Satoru a few pictures that definitely gave him a mini-heart attack at 8:57 in the morning. “You look like you’re about to pen really bad poetry.”

And perhaps this was Shoko’s plan all along - to shock Satoru to the core hard enough that she can note it down as one of her sketchy psychological experiments. 

But he knew. Could feel it in the hazy fragments of memories - or, at the very least, in that entire highlight that Nanamin had oh-so-conveniently put up on Instagram titled, “Blackmail.”

You knew. 

You’d kissed him back. 

“I don’t have a-.” you slur, stumbling ever-so-slightly as you try to meet Satoru’s glassy eyes. Because shit the years have had him shooting up faster than you could look up. “-a New Year’s kiss, y’know.”

You were older - more gorgeous, if that was even possible now. That tight dress hugging your body so unfairly in a way that had him forgetting you were his best friend’s sister. 

The one person in this whole world that he couldn’t have.

But Satoru leans in closer, more because he wants to than anything - he could pick out your voice anywhere let alone over the thumping music currently filling his crowded living room. Lips loose as he tries to play up the cool-guy facade he’s been dubbed with since freshman year, “Hah, loser. Because I do.”

“Where?”

At this, Satoru is stumped - damn, you were good. 

“Not- uh here?” If he was in any clearer state of mind, he’d have been embarrassed at the way his voice cracks so traitorously as your unsteady hands pull him in closer by his overpriced button-up. 

Your body was flush against his now, so addictive. Gaze half-lidded and flickering between the sliver of milky skin exposed on his chest - from that impromptu striptease he’d almost started earlier - and the blue eyes that were currently locked you. You whisper a strained, “Liar.”

Close - too close. So dangerously close.

He breathes out against your lips, the smell of booze and you so heady in his mind. And the heavy words falling from his lips sound like lies, even to him. “Not.”

“Toru?” you hum, a sound that has him gasping. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And there went your New Year’s kisses. At exactly 11:37PM, if the photos were anything to go by. 

And holy shit were there many. All of which showed your arms looped around Satoru’s neck, crashing his lips to yours. His own, resting against your waist, a scandalously red blush - whether from the alcohol or you - adorning his cheeks. Looking more blissed out than he ever remembers feeling. 

“I’m a dead man, Shoko.” 

There’s a lengthy silence, leaving Satoru stewing in thoughts of how Suguru would react once he finds out. And whether or not he’d be able to rise from the dead just to see how pretty you’d look at his funeral.

Morbid thoughts broken only by Shoko’s cough, “Hey, can I keep your eyes for experimentation if he actually catches you?”

Subtly, he sends himself those photos from last night.  

Luckily for Satoru’s eyes, they never ended up being donated towards Shoko’s questionable contributions to the world of medicine. 

And by some grace of the gods above, Suguru never mentioned a word about the kiss that would’ve inevitably made its way to him. Or maybe it was because Satoru stole his phone until he managed to pester Nanami just enough to take down that highlight. But, semantics. 

His heart, however, might as well have been part of some experiment.

Because it’s been working overdrive since that night - mind reliving that moment over and over and over and- shit, he’s fucked. So, so fucked. 

Fucked enough that it took Satoru months just to muster up to even look in your pretty eyes once more, unless he wanted to get lost in them forever. Fucked enough that he dared to wonder again and again when there might be a fourth kiss - if there would be a fourth kiss. 

He just never thought it would happen the way it did - with you, standing outside his front door. 

“I’m sorry, Toru.” you mumble, “It’s just- I think we both need to grow up.”

You’ve freshly graduated now, looking more and more irresistible each time he sees you - even when you’re looking at him like that. 

Rolling his eyes, “Ha, is this another way of saying you want my secret to getting taller? Because the first thing is to-”

“I’m serious, Satoru.”

And oh how he wished you’d say something - anything - else right now. Call him anything but that. Maybe even throw an insult his way, tell him those new sunglasses look ugly, or about how you got that internship he would’ve died for. 

Satoru manages to choke out a heavy, “I don’t understand.” But that uncomfortable coil of something curling at the pit of his stomach said otherwise. And it causes him to finally breathe out a hesitant, “Maybe you’re right.”

As if that was all the answer you needed, you’re stepping out of the front door. Slow, and deliberate like you were giving him another chance - a thousand more. Sighing out a defeated, “It’s been years.” It has. “And we’re just running in circles.” You have. “I’m starting to think this is just some game to you.” It wasn’t.

“Wait!” he grasps your hand - soft. The look in your eyes even softer as you turn around to face his desperate face. “Please, sweetheart.”

Satoru doesn’t even know what words he wants to say - let alone whether they’d come out of his heavy mouth. 

So, instead, he’s crashing them into yours. 

Brief. Fleeting. Like each one before this. Too addictive, too short, that he thinks he’s almost imagining it as you pull away gently, until he sees that look in your eyes. 

“Toru, I have a date.”

The fourth kiss.

Satoru’s letting go of you like it burned - and, truly, it felt like some deep, dark part of him was burning down right now. “Great.” That should be hm that should be him that should be- “I’m…happy for you.”

And the last.

He fucked up.

He really, really fucked up.

That first date turned into a second. The second into a third. And unfortunately for Gojo, eventually, you were nearing your one-year anniversary with that asshat you’d met during the early days of your internship. 

He’d seen the man himself once, briefly at another one of Suguru’s famous parties. Ducking out of sight before he could be introduced, yet long enough to know that he wasn’t as tall, or as handsome, or as absolutely fucking hilarious. 

What did he have that Satoru didn’t? 

The answer to that, Satoru’s reminded of every time he’s causing ruckus over at Suguru’s apartment, and sees you walking out of your room, tittering on the phone to none other than your boyfriend. So gorgeous. So not his. 

You, that loser had you.

“If you sigh again I swear I’m shoving this popcorn up your a-”

“It’s a sad movie, Suguru!” he defends, draped across your couch at another one of those movie nights you loved to organize. As usual, there was the popcorn, the god-awful movie (if Satoru picks it), and the arguments. The only thing missing, however, was you. Ugh, something about an “anniversary” and a “seafood date”. Seriously, it’s not like you even enjoyed that new seafood restaurant in town, and he’s sure that bastard didn’t know-

“Satoru.” his best friend’s deadpan voice cuts through his little reverie. “We’re watching Mean Girls.”

And he’s barely even opening his mouth to snark back before-

SLAM!

Suguru pauses the movie almost immediately, turning to the direction of the front door. “Uh oh.” 

And lo and behold - there was you in all your pissed off, beautiful glory. Throwing your keys on the table, your fiery glare passes over the two men as you stomp to your bedroom. 

“Seafood wasn’t that good, sweetheart?” Satoru calls out behind you, eyes sweeping down your figure. Heart stuttering in his chest when you turn around with your fists clenched, lower lip wobbling in a way that Satoru would both kill whoever made you feel this way and die to be on the other side of those daggers in your eye. 

Sniffing out an icy, “Fuck off, loser and loserette.”

Then in a whirlwind of rage, you’re gone - your bedroom door slamming only slightly more gently than you’d done with the front door. Leaving a deafening silence, and Satoru whining, “Why am I the loserette?”

“Deserved.” Suguru shrugs. Warily eyeing your door, as if it was about to pounce at any given second, “Let her cool down before you give her an aneurysm at least.” Unpausing the television, propping his feet back up, “S’enough having to deal with you on top of a boyfriend like that.”

And that has Satoru perking up in interest - both figuratively, and literally as he snatches the remote and pauses the movie. “Wait wait wait what-” Holding it way out of Suguru’s reach, “What do you mean a ‘boyfriend like that’?”

Scoffing, “Funny. Now give me back the remote.”

A beat of silence passes. One. Two.

Only then does it dawn on Suguru that this might just not be some strange prank to stroke Satoru’s ego, and he was actually  more serious than he’d ever seen him. Damn. 

“Bro, have you really never met the guy or something? He’s a complete tool. I don’t know what happened, but this breakup was a long time coming.”

Satoru blinks, feeling a red hot surge of anger. “What? Seriously? Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“You think I didn’t try?” he sighs, running a hand through his hair at the other’s uncharacteristic silence. “Hah, and just imagine, the man was talking about marriage, too. As if.”

And suddenly, Satoru’s hit with an image of you walking down the aisle. Not something he was a stranger to, but it still takes him aback. The sway of the fabric beneath his fingers, your lips against his. Hell, in that split-second he even dreams up how Nanamin would be crying very reluctant tears of joy. 

Everything. Everything that wasn’t his.

His fist tightens around the remote, until he could hear the cracking of plastic. Mind whirling with the thought of you and him and you. How he wished it was him and you. “I would’ve been better.”

Oh. 

Shit. 

“I- fuck this. Suguru, since elementary school I…”

And, well, Satoru’s so busy putting that extra physics seminar he took in university to work - trying to calculate the odds of surviving a jump out of this seven-storey window - that he almost misses Suguru’s low hum, a distant, almost barely-audible little interruption, “Well duh.”

“Hold on.” he’s snatching away the remote that had somehow slithered its way into the other’s hands once again. Ignoring his best friend’s croak of protests to pause in the middle of Regina George being hit by the bus - which, he felt was strangely enviable right now. “That was- what? YOU KNOW?”

“Huh? Even my parents know, the only one that doesn’t is her.”

“...”

Satoru didn’t know how Suguru seemed so calm, but he felt like he was about to spontaneously combust. Heart stuttering in his chest as he sideglances at your firmly shut door - like he was just waiting for you to jump out and tell him this was some elaborate prank. 

Begging for you to come - it would’ve hurt less.

But you don’t.

Fuck. 

And the only response he gets is a low whistle, before a phone is being shoved in his face - flashlight illuminating that crimson blush. “Damn, the great Gojo Satoru speechless? The groupchat is gonna love this, might even send it to my sister, y’know.” 

He didn’t care - didn’t give a shit if this video made rounds to Gakuganji himself. Only one thought racing through his mind right now. 

“But why aren’t you punching me like in elementary school?” 

And Satoru knows he’s smart - intelligent even. Hell, he was the valedictorian, the youngest employee to claw their way up to being on the board of directors. But he’s never felt more stupid when Suguru breathes out a bewildered, “Dude. That was for blaming me for the paper planes.” 

“Oh.”

Then the movie is unpaused. 

---

The last time you kissed Gojo Satoru was at the doorstep to that overpriced penthouse of his, exactly a year ago today. 

The last time you saw Gojo Satoru was just a few hours ago, lounging around your living room like he owned it. Honestly, he might as well have been part of the furniture at this point - like some expensive, fluffy couch. One that prattled on about your “dumbass boyfriend” and god-knows-what else to rile you up just for the fun of it.

Which is why it was odd to step out of your bedroom - eyes just a bit puffy, throat still tight - to a suspiciously quiet hallway. 

The lights were turned off, nothing but the pouring rain sounding from outside, television paused on some rerun of The Princess Diaries. Damn, you told those idiots not to start that one without you.

“Sugu?” you call, finding his bedroom empty. “Thought tonight was movie night?” Padding across the empty apartment, contemplating whether or not to get your phone and call him when-

Ding!

Ah, there. 

You roll your eyes as you head towards the front door, ready to give Suguru a piece of his mind for going out at this ungodly hour and forgetting his key. Seriously, what if you opened the door and he was hurt, or worse, or…

Satoru. 

Speaking a mile a minute.

Satoru.

“-florist was closed and the store clerk looked at me like I was crazy but I got this for-” he pauses abruptly, as if realizing something with a jolt. “-you.”

“You- what-” you don’t know where to look - at the drenched, disheveled Satoru filling your doorframe - rain in his hair, curtaining his frantic eyes, drenching his snug t-shirt. Or at the obscenely large bouquet of cheap strawberry lollipops being placed gently into your arms. 

What follows was an electric silence - and you have half the mind to tease Satoru for finally shutting the fuck up for once in his life. 

But, no. Instead, you eye the way he stands stubbornly at the doorway, fists clenched, blue eyes locked so intensely on yours that it was like they burned. 

Face flushed a familiar pretty pink that makes you realize that shit, he might be taller, voice deeper, broad shoulders tight against his t-shirt - but this was still the same boy that cried when you stole his favorite Digimon card in middle school. The same one that kissed you underneath a dingy slide, smelling of strawberry lollipops.

It’s the steady tap! tap! tap! of the water droplets from his hair that have you tearing your traitorous eyes from his see-through white t-shirt.

Guess you’ve both done some growing up since then.

“You loser.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

The pink wrapping of the bouquet rustles as your grip tightens. “He proposed to me today, y’know.” and yet, your quiet, even voice was the only thing ringing in Satoru’s ears. He jolts, as if some visceral, primal part of himself had been poked awake. Breathing heavy, fists clenching until he could feel the neat indents of his fingernails on his palm. Of course. He’s late. He’s late he’s late he’s late-

That is, until you’re plowing on, “I said no.”

“Huh?”

You think back to the stuffy restaurant, the man sitting from across from you - how wrong it felt. And all it took were those four words for you to realize that. “I said no.” 

Satoru snaps his head up, stepping close - so close. Voice strained like he wasn’t asking - begging. Praying, “Why?”

“We…” you raise a brow at the way Satoru flinches as you trail off. So desperate. A smirk makes its way onto your face, “...we haven’t divorced yet, right?”

And then you’re kissing him - or maybe he’s kissing you. 

Fuck, you don’t know - nor do you really care right now. Not when Satoru’s got his lips crashing against yours for the fifth time in your life, kissing you like it would be the last. Big arms dipping down to your waist, pulling you so tight against his muscled frame that he had half the mind to wonder whether it hurt. 

“Love this. Love the way you kiss me- fuck-” he’s spitting against your lips, kicking the door shut behind him. “Oh- would ya get mad if I-” he tries to get out through kisses. Only to suck on your pretty lips with a pained grunt. “If I-” Again and again, like it killed him to part. “-hah- celebrated right now?”

“Yes.” You’re letting the bouquet fall to the foor, white-knuckling that useless, drenched excuse of a shirt. “Now kiss me properly, Toru.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Such a sloppy mix of teeth and hands and him. Shoving a knee between your legs, making up for years and years of late nights with nothing but his fist and the pretty thought of you. 

“Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart.” Satoru breathes out, as your urgent fingers that dispose of his shirt, feeling the gorgeous dips and curves of years of hard work to impress you. “Suck on m’tongue pretty- fuck-” His own fisting your shirt, pulling. Ripping.

“Toru!”

“I want you.” He’s letting the poor, tattered pieces drop in a pile on the floor, trailing a hand between your damp thighs before he can stop himself. “Oh how I’ve wanted you. And I don’t care if I have to buy fifty new outfits to make up for it.”

And it’s the feeling of his long index stroking up your sopping slit through your shorts that has you pulling away with a gasp. Delicate little strings of saliva snapping from Satoru’s kiss-bitten lips. “If we continue like this…” your voice wavers as he presses hot kisses along your collarbone. “-my brother’s gonna walk in.”

“...wouldn’t wanna relive that playground kiss, huh?”

It’s all he says before picking you up so easily, hands resting on your ass. Giving a playful spank ass you wrap your legs around his toned waist. 

And it’s sloppy.

Both his lips still hotly on yours and the way he’s stumbling urgently to your room through pure muscle memory. Pulling away only when you’re all splayed out so prettily for him on your mattress.

“Blue?” he breathes, pulling your shorts off. And it comes out strained - like the very sight of your panties - all soaked and flimsy with your slick - has whatever’s remaining of Satoru’s sanity flying out the window. “Blue? Oh, you’ve gotta have planned this, you little minx.” his hot breath hits your cunt as he shifts down the bed, tongue drawing languid, wet little circles on your inner thigh. “Because don’t tell me this was all for him?”

It was coincidence - or maybe fate - but that doesn’t stop you from giving Satoru a slow, teasing nod. Muttering out, “So what if it was?”

The only answer you get is thumb hooked around your shorts, pulling it just enough so that your brother’s best friend can spy your pretty pussy.

“Well then.” he chuckles at the way you jump when his fingertip just barely grazes your clit. “Guess I jus’ hafta prove m’better.”

A low groan is falling from his lips as soon as they meet your puffy ones, giving your pretty clit a chaste peck. Lingering long enough that he’s sure your sweet sweet juices cover his mouth.

And oh Satoru’s sure he’ll never forget the way your jaw falls slack, glassy eyes following his every move as he runs his tongue along his glossy lips. Savoring your candied taste, “Never kissed you like this before, huh?” 

Fuck, you’re sweeter than he’s imagined.

You whine desperately, something that has him smirking smugly, “Hah, what? Cat got your tongue?”

“You’re better when you shut up.” It’s all you can do to buck your hips into Satoru’s pretty face - not that you had to, because one taste of your dripping cunt and he was addicted. Surging forwards until he was nose-deep, locking your ankles around his head with a firm yank.

And you can’t lie - maybe you’ve imagined this exact scene a few times before on those lonely nights. But you just never expected Satoru to be so depraved. Desperate.

“Ngh- fuck, Toru-” you reach a hand down to thread your fingers through his hair, tugging his face up. But Satoru doesn’t stop - not even for a second. Tongue still dipping to spread your swollen folds with his tongue, looking you right in the eyes as he murmurs a strangled, “Mhm?” 

“Thought you were gonna prove you’re better, hm?”

So goading. So like you. 

At this, Satoru pulls back ever-so-slightly to laugh - laugh. His plump, glistening lips curling into a humorless little grin, “Oh I will.” Thumb circling your throbbing clit. Just dragging your twitching body across the silky sheets close to his, one hand pinning your hips down. Hard. “I will.”

Loving his new favorite place between your legs one hand toys with your clit, quick, messy little patterns. Tongue even more so. 

“Not just better.” he grunts, “Gonna make you cum so much harder, too.” Having your thighs shake with each word hissed out into your cunt, each turn of his deft fingers. “Till I’m the only thing on your mind. Me.”

And it’s all you can do to let out choked up groans of his name, back arching off the plush mattress to let him make out with your cunt deeper. Sloppier. So, so starved with the way he’s speeding up, tongue dragging across your walls. In and out in and out in and-

“Fuck! Hngh-” you angle his head - and he lets you. “There- Toru-”

Honestly, you didn’t even have to tell Satoru - he could feel it. Could feel it in the way your plushy walls are squeezing his hot tongue so harsh, until it was almost difficult to fuck your pussy so sloppily. In the way you’re letting out such delicious whines each time he grazes against those sweet spots. 

“There? Hah- I know.” he pulls away to muse, and your cute, disappointed whine goes straight to his already rock-hard cock. “Did he?”

He didn’t. And you’re shaking your head so pathetically - in a way you’d be embarrassed about usually. 

But that’s the last thing you’re thinking bout because you feel it - the cold, sinful feeling of Satoru spitting on your filthy cunt. Once. Twice. Blue eyes widening in delight at the way the mess of spit and slick drip down your slit. 

“Cute.” his tongue smoothes over the slutty pool, and the only thing your delirious brain can make out now is a low moan of, “So? Who’s better?”

It’s all you can do to choke out a broken little, “T-T-” Face burning at the way he was so clearly enjoying your struggle. And, well, no matter painfully hard it made his dick - he had to go just a bit easy on his girl, right?

“Shhhh, s’alright.” you flinch as he shoves two absolutely drenched fingers into your mouth, making so much more of a mess of it than necessary. Drinking in your cute gags, “I was asking her.” He’s making your head spin with the way he’s speeding up. “N’ she’s hah- very talkative.” Words muffled, and slurring together - like he was drunk off of you and your cunt. “Let’s hear what she has to ngh- say, huh?”

And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and squeezing into your sloppy entrance - like he couldn’t - didn’t - want to make up his mind. Oh, with your teary mewls strangled, the sound of Satoru making out with cunt is so loud. The squelches so obscene. 

“Fuuuuck.” he drawls. “Louder than I thought. I think she says I’m better, don’t you think?” 

You angle your head just right to catch the way his jaw grinds deeper into you, eating you out like his last meal. Your slick drooling down his chin so sinfully. 

“Ngh- fuck fuck fuck- ngh-” your yelps are dreamy, feeling like you were losing your mind with the way he was stretching you out. 

Like you were about to snap. Any second now. 

But Satoru’s only increasing his movements, drawing out your little moans. “And I think she’s saying…”  Getting sloppier. More erratic - and it didn’t matter if his fingers were cramping up now, cock aching with the need to be inside you. “-that she’s about to cum.”

You do - so hard and loud - both you and your cunt. 

You’re shaking, all but gushing all over Satoru’s mouth, tight pussy squeezing his tongue so hard. Barely even realizing the searing grip you’ve got on his hair as you drag your sloppy pussy all over his mouth.

But Satoru doesn’t mind - he gladly welcomes it, in fact. Tonguefucking your snug cunt senselessly, letting you chase your high as roughly as you wanted. Over and over.

Even when you’re vision isn’t as spotty as before, even when nothing’s coming out of your mouth but little whimpers. Your breathing dying down until all that rings in your barely-lucid mind were those obscene noises of Satoru’s lips all on yours. 

“T-Toru-” you whine, big fat tears pricking at your hazy eyes. “M’so sensitive.”

And of course this is Satoru, the same boy who’s been pushing your buttons for years just to giggle at your adorable reactions. Which is why he grins against your twitching cunt, “So?”

It takes everything in you to raise your head off the pillow that just seemed to be swallowing you whole, and even more to shoot Satoru a half-hearted glare. “So m’gonna ngh- assume you’re jus’ a pussy with a s-smaller dick than-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence - he doesn’t let you. Because Satoru’s fumbling with his belt, peeling off those still-drenched pants just enough for you to admire his clothed erection. 

And, shit, admittedly you expected him to have a big dick - having been subjected to way too much locker room talk with your brother - but this was ridiculous. 

“What? Too big?” He flashes you that infuriating grin. Palming his rock-hard cock through his boxers at the way your beautiful eyes trace the outline of his cock, all swollen and big. So intimidatingly big. “Damn, sweetheart, if I knew that this was how I’d get that feisty lil’ mouth of yours to shut up then I’d have done it a lot sooner.” 

And you don’t even know if you’re breathing, the pads of your fingers dancing along his bulge. Tracing those prominent veins. Thumbing that little damp spot at his fat head. “You wouldn’t have.” 

He hisses as your soft hands dip into the hem of his underwear. Voice cracking slightly, “I wouldn’t.”

Then you’re gasping - in sync with Satoru’s low moan - as you finally let him spring free. Thick cock hitting his sculpted abs, red tip smearing precum in a lewd little pool. Weeping and so so angry at the sight of you.

At the heavenly feeling of your thumb teasing under his sensitive slit, “Oh, shit.” 

He’s throwing his head back when you give an experimental pump, all the way from his pretty tip to the tufts fo white at his hilt. Fist gliding all over the thumping veins. Bucking his hips up like such a slut into your touch. 

“O-oh fuck.” he cracks an eye open at the way your hand looked so small compared to his dick, how well you were taking care of him. “Been ngh- dreaming of this since I learned what handjobs were, y’know? Hah- shit- ya gotta stop before I fuckin’ pass out.”

And Satoru thinks he could cum right then and there at the way you’re bringing your soaked index up to your mouth. Batting your lashes as you suck on them with a lewd pop! “From jus’ that?”

“You have no idea.”

That’s all it takes for Satoru to throw your still-quivering thighs over his shoulders, effectively shutting up whatever tease is on the tip of your sharp tongue by kissing your swollen folds with his fat head. Giving it one, long drag. 

Your mouth is sagging open at the slow, torturous teasing. The sheer anticipation that had your mouth running, “S-so much for ah- jus’ being ‘friends’, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” And you’re flinching from Satoru’s deep, dark tone. The way he’s bracing his fingers so bruisingly on your hips, reeling all the way back till his tip was just kissing your hole. “We stopped being friends the day you married me on that playground.” 

And then he’s slamming in - pushing past that first, feeble ring of resistance, gummy walls stretching out so perfectly for him. As if he fit right in - and he tells you that. Pants it into your open mouth a little over fifteen times, in fact. 

“Shiiiit, look at you.” he can’t tear his eyes away from the side of your lips stretching so wide to try and milk him. Sloppy entrance stretching out like magic. “S’like you’re made for me, huh? This pussy is made f’me?”

“Ngh- fuck, Toru! S’too big-” you keen, feet flattening on the mattress. As if to escape. To maybe fucking breathe.  

Not even half-way in yet, but aleady torn between pushing away and sinking yourself down on his swollen cock for more more more-

“Don’t you dare run away.” he warns, looking up at you through his long lashes. “I’ve waited too long for this. N’ you’re not taking this pretty pussy away any time soon.” Inch by fucking inch. Grinding in short, sharps jabs - no rhythm of rhyme, like they were genuinely out of control. “Way too f-fuckin’-” All the way until your puffy folds was meeting his hilt. Finally. All the way in. “-long.”

And once Satoru had you split apart on his dick - had those tears rolling down your cheeks, cunt swallowing him so sluttily - it’s like something snaps. 

Because he doesn’t waste a second - he’s already wasted almost two decades, anyway - filling you up with his mean hips. Not fucking easing you into it because you always did bring out that part of him, the part that him looping two strong arms around your waist. Pulling. 

“Oh- f-fuck c’mere.” Satoru gasps, pressing your body so crushingly against his. Kissing your shaky shoulers, your sweaty forehead, the gentleness so contrasting to his hips.“God I’ve missed out- fuck fuck fuck-” 

You’ve never seen the great Gojo Satoru - campus sex symbol - so uncomposed. Eyes half-lidded, just boring into yours, mouth slack in a soft oh! as he drags his cock all over inside your gummy walls. And the sight is so heavenly that you make the mistake the mistake of cracking a minute smile.

Just barely curling your lips before - “Don’t smile at me like that.” He’s dipping down a hand to roll your ravaged clit between two bullying fingers. “Fuck, she’s gonna be the death of me. Right?”

You keen at the- stimulation? The strech? The sheer embarrassment as you realize that Satou’s still talking to your sloppy pussy? Nodding so mockingly up at you as he plows on, “Mhm, she says you needa be ngh- knocked down a god, you’re tight- peg or two. So- get- ready-” 

He’s using this as an excuse to sit up on his knees, dragging you onto his lap so easily like some ragdoll. 

“That’s more like it.”

You’re sliding deeper down his painfully hard cock - all the way till his heavy balls rest beneath your ass, clit rubbing against his pelvis every time he bounces you like some slut.  

Deep. Ruthless.

“Keep your eyes open, sweetheart.” He chuckles, and you’re screwing open your eyes that you don’t even remember shutting. Trying so hard to stop crying out at the feeling of the curve of his dick massaging your walls. “Ya gotta hngh- see the o-only one who’d fuckin’ you properly, right?”

You squeal when he’s taking your clit captive once more. Finger quick, deft. “Y-yes.”

But that wasn’t enough for Satoru - it might as well never be. Because he’s only ramming his hips up further. Like he’s pushing into your stomach, your lungs, all the way into your cockdrunk brain. Fat head alternating between kissing your poor, abused cervix and all those sweet spots he’d mapped out with his tongue.

“Sounded unsure to me.” he’s pouty against your hardened nipples bouncing enticingly in his face. Fingers quirking faster on your clit, “Maybe I should ngh- stop then?”

“No!” Your hips stutter against Satoru’s. Nails clawing down the sculpted panes of his shoulders, leaving red angry marks for him to take as a sign tomorrow morning that no, it wasn’t just one of his dreams this time. “No no no- m’sure. You’re the only one makin’ me feel this way.”

You can feel the way he’s twitching wildly at your words, dick thumping harder inside your sensitive cunt. 

He punctures each word with a heavy, calculated thrust. Hand stretching and squeezing open your cunt from behind to let him slide impossibly deeper. “Hmmm, I’m not convinced.” 

Your stupid mouth is only capable of letting out broken, choked-up little moans of his name, ankles locking around those dimples at the end of his spine. “S’you–”

“Still not convinced.”

But he’s still speeding up his movements, just dragging you up and down his cock. “Who else made you hah- feel this good?” Sure to claim you from the inside out - to leave marks everywhere. Heavy balls on your ass, weeping tip on your cervix, lips bruised as you whimper at his murmured, “That ex of yours?” Biting down your neck, “That barista that always flirts with you?” Pulling away only to breathe into your lips, “Who?”

“ I- fuck it’s only you, Toru.”

“Sound convincing to you?” Satoru hums down at your cunt, biting his lower lip at the way you were milking him so good. Your slick soaking him all the way down to his balls - so needy in a way he never thought he’d see. “Yeah-” be breathes, nosing at your neck. “She agrees- fuck does this tight lil’ pussy of yours agree.” A few tears, a few gorgeous marks down his back, and he was finally convinced. “You’re mine.”

You don’t even realize it when you’re cumming, and Satoru doesn’t either.

Both of you too caught up in each other to recognize that familiar, white-hot pleasure running down your spine - all the way down to where he was so mercilessly buried in your cunt.  

And you’re well into the blood roaring deafeningly in your ears, the sight of Satoru - all wrecked - blurring as he fucks his hips up. Harsh. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he paints your quivering walls white. 

Cumming and cumming so hard that you can feel his seed dribbling down your thighs, making such a mess all over Satoru’s lap. Your poor, overfilled cunt soon bloated and unable to keep up with it.

“Toru–” you whine, like a prayer. Milking the fucking soul out of him while he gently paws at your messy hair.

“Shhh, I know I know, sweetheart.” Such a stark contrast to the way he was filling you up like his favorite sex toy. Not even bothering to move anymore, one hand on your hip, moving your limp body up and down his sensitive cock to fuck it deeper. The other still playing with your clit, “S’alright, my girl”

Satoru’s hands never leave you, and he prays that now that he got a taste - well, you better be alright with them not leaving you for as long as he lives.

“As long as you live, huh?” you chuckle groggily, a noise so dreamy that Satoru can’t even be mad that he said it out loud. “And all that riling me up these years. Do you have a degradation kink or something?”

“Well, only one way to find out~”

“Oh shut up you-”

SLAM!

“Yooo, I bought dinner from that- WHAT THE FUCK?”

There were only two more lessons to be learned:

Always lock the door. Always. And in case you don’t, a bouquet of lollipops will do the trick to a Suguru reeling from the newest addition to the family. 

Cheap takeout tastes better with an apologetic Suguru, and an ice pack to his cheek - and you to kiss it better.

A/N. Can you tell I kept listening to that one Artemas song while writing this?

Plagiarism not authorized.

[poppy-metal]

So I’ve sent a few asks about this since i'm not a challengers blog lmao but i feel like ive got this sorted now. This is a polycule au where reader enters via Tashi.

Reader is Tashi’s childhood best friend. They met at a day camp for kids in the neighborhood, and you were excited to let her babble on about tennis and sports and everything else. You traded hair ties and discovered you have the same favorite movie and that was that. 

You were interested in tennis for a bit, an eager little kid, really just excited to have a best friend. Your parents were a bit concerned - don't you want other friends? She seems a little... overbearing... - but you didn’t care. This wasn’t just another kid - this was Tashi. Fire and ice, determination and grit, strength and beauty... You didn’t realize you were falling in love, you were just a kid. But that first love - when given the opportunity - can grow into its own beast. Spin the bottle might have been the first kiss you two share (and your first kiss ever), and it probably should have hurt your feelings more when she told you you were a terrible kisser later that night, but she offered to teach you and you tried to ignore the way your mouth went dry at the thought of tasting her again.

But despite your best efforts, as you drift away from tennis and into the pageant circuit, you and Tashi drift apart too. She still drags you out to do doubles for fun, but you can tell it bothers her that you aren’t as passionate about it as she is. It was her idea to write letters in college - she was flopped out on your bed, looking like a goddess in her tiny pajama shorts. She said it was convenient, you couldn’t help the way your heart skipped a beat. You’d been scared that she might just leave you - find a friend with a passion and drive that matched hers. But she wanted you around. Even tried to set you up with Art one time, the four of you crammed in a booth at some shitty diner. You decided then that you hated both boys - you’d heard their names in her letters, tried to ignore the way jealousy coiled in your chest every time they looked at her.

After her injury though... she just drifted away. By the time Lily was born, she rarely wrote back, to your texts or emails. It was too hard - you understood tennis as a game, but not in the way she did. Besides, you were solidly from before. Before the injury, before the marriage, before any of it. In her mind, you were pure. She couldn’t taint that with her pain and loss. You tried reaching out to Art, but he brushed you off.  You ran into Patrick a few years later, at a shitty hotel. You’d almost kissed him - the heat of the moment and the history making desire twist with guilt in your stomach and you’d practically ran from the bar.

But that didn’t mean you stopped writing. And that made everything worse - why couldn’t you be more like Patrick, take a hint, let her go, let her slip fully into her after. But you never forgot a birthday - an ever growing collection of cards and letters in a box under her bed. You’d wondered, sometimes, if she read them. The letters got shorter and shorter as your own life drifted away from you. Empty friendships, empty relationships... it should have alarmed you, the way your life became grey without her. 

After the Challenger, when Patrick was back in their life, he was looking for something of Art’s when he found that shoebox under her bed. The last few letters are unopened - you’d stopped including any details of interest by now, and she couldn’t bear to read the nothingness. You used to fill pages - now you barely covered the front of one.

But despite late night conversations while Tashi was getting ready for bed, neither Patrick nor Art ever felt like it was their place to say anything. Patrick would poke and prod, but never actually did anything. 

It would be another year of radio silence before fate intervened. At this point in your life, you were working as a personal assistant for some big-wig sports sponsor, an overbearing man with wandering hands - but he pays you well, and your contract has a year or so left in it anyways.

The party had barely started when someone taps you on your shoulder. You’d been flitting around in a blush gown, debriefing the staff and restocking tables. You spin, expecting another waiter with a question, but Art’s blue eyes widened as they met yours. He hadn’t recognized you from behind - looking for answers about where to put their coats, but now you were both staring, brains whirring, trying to think of what to say. And you can’t stop  yourself from scanning the room, a million questions swirling in your mind. Is she here? Did she know I was here? Eventually, you and Art are able to get through the awkward conversation, as you try to keep your eyes from traveling the entirety of his form - older, but still muscled, and the crows feet around his eyes only served to increase his attractiveness.

You’d flit away again, your heart pounding in your chest. You still hadn’t seen Tashi - was she even here? It would be a few hours before Patrick would confront you at the bar. You’d finally gotten away from your boss, throwing back a shot surreptitiously. 

“Is he always like that?” He asked, leaning back against the bar, up in your space the way he’d been all those years ago. 

“Hmm?” Was all you could manage, the shock and the alcohol making your mind move slower than normal.

“Your boss. Is he always so touchy?” You don’t answer that, putting your shot glass back on the bar and flitting away again.You’d hosted a thousand parties with your boss - why are they here now?

It was almost midnight by the time you finally see Tashi - you’d been washing your hands in the women's bathroom when she came out of the stall behind you and you both froze. Your brain was running a mile a minute, you weren’t even sure if you were breathing, all those feelings from decades ago coming up your throat.

“It’s good to see you.” Was all she said before slipping out of the bathroom. You find yourself leaning heavily against the sink, just trying to catch your breath.

Tashi would say that it was seeing you with your boss that pushed her over the edge into bringing you back into her life. But both Patrick and Art know that it wouldn’t have mattered if she had seen you with your shitty boss, happily married with kids, or in the height of your career. One look at you was enough.

aw, this one HURT what the hell ☹️☹️☹️☹️ the continued letters :((((( them slowly getting more and more lifeless the more that times passes and the more listless she becomes :(((( i imagine she stops hoping for tashi's reply, probably stops thinking tashi reads them at all - just vents like its a diary - she could buy an actual diary but something about the letters and knowing where they'll end up gives you comfort. you talk about failed dates and how you dont feel like you're built for love, dont think its meant for you. think you're probably always meant to doll it out and not receive it and how its okay and you accept it and you dont resent her for leaving - especially after her injury, you get it - except sometimes you get angry and your letters have tear stains on them with blurred ink lines and you write about how you understand how hurt and devastated tashi must have been and still must be, but why couldn't she let you be there for her? why weren't you enough? why did she accept love from art years later but never sends a letter back to you? why does he get grace from that time in your life, but you dont? what did you do to deserve it?

those are the letters tashi almost replies to - the angry ones - she gets as far as putting a pen to paper but can never find the words to explain how the reminder of you, after her injury, was just too much to bear - all her passion and ferocity and girlish zeal were wrapped up tightly and bound to you - even though you didn't play tennis - you reminded her of everything playing tennis used to make her feel. euphoric. how can she explain thinking of you made her sick to her stomach and by the time she'd gotten to a place where she could stand on her own two feet again. allow love back into her life through art - that she'd simply felt the weight of her cruelty too intensely. she couldn't apologize. she couldn't bear seeing the betrayal in your eyes, the hurt, the wound she'd caused. tashi was tough - but not when it came to you. you'd rip her right open. so she never replied. and eventually, it became too much to read them too.

and art probably knows about you - it's kind of hard not to notice his wife getting letters continuously. he asks about them, and tashi tells them they're from you and arts thinks 'oh.' he feels bad for you, he remembers you - remembers that time tashi tried to set you on a double date and it went miserably because art was too much of a loser back then to know how to treat a woman - and he'd still been very much in love with tashi. you'd been sweet, though. down to earth, kind, funny. he could tell you and tashi adored eachother. he doesn't read any of your letters, but he sees the expression on tashi's face kind of - shrink whenever she gets one - and he recommends only once, "why dont you return it?" but the glare she'd sent him had been enough that he'd never brought it up again. he wanted to ask more about you. had an inkling there was something more there under the surface - something romantic even, but he never knew how to go about asking. you were a touchy subject. it made him endlessly curious, despite himself.

and patrick - patrick probably hurt the worst. tashi marrying art - not being invited to the wedding - it'd hurt, badly. you'd written her many letters about just how much it hurt - but with patrick. it felt like a slap to the face. you and patrick - you felt a kinship with him. you hadn't bonded until well after college, not until years later, when you ran into him one night at a local bar. but catching up with him felt as easy as breathing, and like you'd known him all your life. he was self-deprecating and annoyingly flirtatious and haunted. he asked you about a tattoo you had on your wrist with a finger skimming the mark there and you'd breathed in. and that was it. you spent hours talking about tashi, spooling your guts out - and he did the same. you realized you had a connection there - you'd never been around patrick much when he dated tashi but you could tell he still loved her. just like you did. art too, though you didn't know the man well enough to mourn his absence from your life, other than to be stung that he apparently was more deserving of tashi than you were.

you'd almost went home with him - you could tell he wanted to. and the shared pain you felt drew you to him, you couldn't lie. patrick zweig was attractive and and you knew a night with him would treat you well. he'd make you cum - many times, probably. but the thing that stopped you was the very reason you were called to do it in the first place. god, was everything in your life about tashi? every goddamn thing? even your hookups? patrick wanted you, he definitely thought you were hot, but the peak of his desire came from wanting to have something of tashi's. to be closer to her - or to back at her. he'd make you cum, but it wouldn't be about you, or even for you. you couldn’t even be mad at him for wanting it - because for a moment, you wanted it too. to have something of tashi's - both to be closer to her and to spite her. but that's not who you were, at the end of the day.

you just didn't have it in you to play games.

patrick didn't take it hard. just gave you a half crooked smile and gave you his number if you ever changed your mind. the paper sat folded up in a pocket in your wallet for years to come. never used, but never tossed out.

it would be a few years later - working on an event for your gross boss that you saw the match on screen. catching snatches of it between your rounds of attending to guests, before tuning in fully on your break. breathless and nearly nose pressed to the screen as you watched all three of them come together in the most beautiful match of tennis you'd ever seen in your life. watching art and patrick embrace across the net made your eyes burn. when you saw tashi smile you turned the TV off.

a week later patrick was in the news, pictures of him seen with tashi and art on every article online. you couldn’t escape from their image - pictures of the three of them at a dinner - coming out of the movies. one of tashi and patrick seen laughing at a premiere. another of art and patrick relaxing on beach chairs.

it felt like being stabbed in the chest. the connection you felt with patrick severed. you didn't share anything. he was still chosen, in the end, when you weren't. you threw his number out. crumpled and barely eligible anyway.

you stop writing tashi after that. you doubt she'd notice. it was time you stopped being pathetic and let go. she probably threw the letters away the second she got them. art probably thought you were a nuisance. patrick probably thought you were a joke.

you move through life on autopilot for some time. you tune out news about anything related to tennis. you throw yourself into your job - that you hate. but what can you do? it puts food on the table and a roof over your head and yeah your boss gets handsy and makes inappropriate comments but its worth it kind of because he pays you extra and that means you get to buy the fancy ramen. the kind with actual beef tips in it.

its just any other night, refilling guests drinks - managing the bar when it's unattended - flitting around to see if anyone needed anything. your outfit was bordering on inappropriate - akin to that of a maid - black and white and shorter than necessary, especially for a high brow event such as this. but it was what your boss made all the women wear, so you couldn't complain. and yeah, maybe your skirt was shorter than anyone elses but if you just were conscious enough of your surroundings and keeping the hem from raising, it was manageable.

seeing art is like a bucket of ice being dumped on your head. turning around to see his startled expression feels almost comical. his suit and tie in comparison to your near slutty get up is humiliating beyond belief but you simply paste a smile on your face and pretend like seeing him and what it means that hes here hasn't just made your brain short circuit - you act like he's any other guest. pluck his coat from his arm and tell him if he needs anything to please let you know. you hope he doesn't. you hope he leaves you the hell alone.

if seeing art was ice seeing patrick at the bar feels like being tossed into a fireplace. you feel your skin heat just from him being close. your nose twitches at his comment - patrick was always more perceptive than people gave him credit for - but you didn't want to linger around to entertain him. if he thought he could just talk to you like he did the last time you two talked - like he hadn't spit in your face - he was wrong.

and if seeing patrick was like being thrown in a pit of fire seeing tashi in the bathroom was like being shot through the heart. a bullet entering your sternum. breaking all your bones that'd been paper thin anyway and tearing apart all your lungs and viens and cartilage. beautiful as the day you'd last seen her. somehow even more gorgeous with time and in the flesh. her beauty could never be captured completely by a camera or on a screen, though. it was the kind that shone best in person. because she glowed. she was effervescent. you wanted to die.

"its good to see you."

its good to see you.

over and over again in your head long after the door swings shut behind her. its good to see you like there wasn't a decade of unaccounted time between you. its good to see you like there weren't a thousand unanswered letters between you. its good to see you like you were passing acquaintances. nothing more.

you wash your hands in the sink three times. you fix your skirt, though it does absolutely nothing to do so. you go back outside and you deliberately avoid their table and when your boss pulls you to the side and slides a hand down your arm and tells you, you look like you need a break - you look at him and you know you can do what you usually do, which is act stupid and say no thank you or simply act like you dont know what he wants from you until he gets bored. but then you feel the empty pit in your chest that the bullet left ravaged, and you know you need something to fill it. even if that something will make you hate yourself.

you dont beat around the bush.

"can you take me home after work?"

your boss grins. you smile back, it feels wooden on your face.

"sure i can, sweetheart."

[lulublack90]

Prompt 2 - Oyster

@wolfstarmicrofic June 2, word count 711

Previous part First part

They had a bit of free time while all the new campers got settled in before the next activity started, so they were all relaxing in their cabin. 

“What are we doing next?” Sirius asked from his bed where he was firing tiny bits of balled-up paper with an elastic band at James, who was giving as good as he got.

“Arts and crafts today, to ease in the newbies,” James replied, his paper missile pinging out of the elastic band and somehow lodging itself up Peter’s nose. “Oh, shit, sorry, Pete!” James put down his band and went to help Peter. Sirius looked at Remus and burst out laughing. Remus chuckled quietly. 

“They’d better have something good to do and not like last year,” Sirius said as he shot paper balls at the back of James’s head. 

“What did they do last year?” Remus asked, unable to help himself. Sirius jumped up from his bed and flopped beside Remus, rolling onto his side and propping his head up with his hand. 

“Ah, dear, dear, Remus. Last year they gave us oyster shells to paint as jewellery dishes and poor Peter here managed to break his and slice his fingers open with the sharp edge. Had to go to the hospital, didn’t you Pete?” Peter nodded and held up his right hand to show Remus the little scars that formed a perfect line across the lips of his fingers. 

“You seem to be a bit accident-prone,” Remus blurted out before he could stop himself. He sat horrified. He’d only just met these people.

“That’s the understatement of the century,” Sirius snickered while Peter stuck his fingers up at him.

“Peter stay still,” James told Peter off as he turned his head back to where it had been. James put his hands on his hips and huffed, puffing out his lips as he tried to figure out how to get the paper out of Peter’s nose. 

“Has anyone got any tweezers?” Remus asked, looking at Sirius at the same time the other two did. 

“Why do you all assume I have tweezers?” Sirius pouted. “Oh, alright! They’re in my toiletry bag.” Remus’s eyes widened when he realised that Sirius expected him to go get them. When he didn't move, James went through to their little bathroom and grabbed them.

“Keep very still Petey,” James warned, his tongue already poking out of the corner of his mouth. 

“James, are you sure you can do this? Maybe I should go see Mrs Pomfrey,” Peter said, with a note of panic in his voice. 

“Pretty sure Pete,” James said as he moved the tweezers towards Peter's nose with a slightly shaky hand. Peter noticed. 

“Nope,” He said as he darted away from James. He jumped on Remus’s bed and hid behind him. “Remus, save me!” Remus got a sudden surge of courage and held out his hands for the tweezers. 

“Give them here, James. I’ll do it,” Peter didn’t look any happier about it. “Don’t worry, Peter,” Remus said kindly. “I’ve got a steady hand,” He held up his hand to show how it didn’t move. “Lie down, and I’ll have it out in a second.” Peter flopped back onto Remus’s bed. Remus tried to ignore the fact that everyone bar James was on his bed. He shook his head and moved closer to Peter’s face. 

He held the tweezers out and just as he was about to pluck the paper out of Peter’s nose, James sat on the bed, bouncing them. Remus froze. “You two,” He pointed at James and Sirius, “Off. Go and stand over there.” His bossy self took over. James and Sirius didn’t even question him and went and stood in the corner quietly. Remus turned around and in less than a second had the paper out. Peter hadn’t even noticed having his eyes screwed shut. “All done,” Remus smiled. “Now get off my bed,” He ordered, pushing Peter off his pillow. 

"You're brilliant, Remus," Sirius grinned as he bounced across the room, closely followed by James, and jumped straight back on Remus’s bed. Remus sighed, sensing this was going to become a regular occurrence. But he felt for the first time in his life he might finally have some friends. 

Next part

[korpuskristae]

Jasmine and Rose - The Air Tastes Just Like You

Warnings: Severus being a moody grump, reference to cannon death, foreshadowing, set during Philosopher’s Stone but no specific references are made, Religious references and guilt

Pairing: Severus Snape x Female Reader, reader uses she/her pronouns

Word Count: 800+

Summary: Severus brews amortentia with his students only to find the scent has changed.

Part 2 Part 3

AN: This is my first time posting fanfiction on this account and to my surprise, I really enjoyed writing this. Ignore any grammar and spelling mistakes, I glanced over this before posting. I wrote this little drabble (it's now much longer than I anticipated and will be split into multiple parts) while listening to Jasmine and Rose by Clan of Xymox so I guess you could consider this a borderline song fic. Here's the song if you’re interested in listening, if you like it you should check out my Sev playlist on Spotify. (Also give me Sev smut ideas, I’m ITCHING to write smth, no teacher-student stuff)

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿ ☆ ‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

Read on AO3

Hunched over a cauldron, Severus stood in the middle of his dark classroom, his face illuminated only by a candle he’d lit hours ago which had been reduced to a mere stub at this point.

Grumbling to himself, he meticulously cut up some herbs and threw them into the cauldron with a flourish and a flick of his wand to clear off his workbench. Impatiently waiting for the potion to finish brewing, he attempted to busy himself with something, anything, to get his mind off of his current predicament.

A few moments of contemplation passed before that same scent, that damnable scent, snapped him out of his thoughts.

He had to have been insane.

Perhaps he was losing his touch? Even the most knowledgeable scholars have been known to have days where even the simplest of tasks elude them… it was true he hadn’t slept in a while, maybe he was simply imagining things.

Yes, he was just imagining things.

That was the only logical conclusion. He found comfort in the fact that It wasn’t a problem with him but rather his sleep schedule, for once, just maybe, something wasn’t his fault.

His momentary relief of guilt came crashing down upon smelling the scent, your scent, yet again, only this time much stronger.

Still refusing to believe it, he reasoned it must have been some mistake on his part. Maybe he was daft. Furiously waving his wand, he cleared the cauldron of its contents and extinguished the flame underneath.

“Evanesco,” he muttered bitterly as he dramatically spun on his heel before marching over to the potions storeroom.

He was going to settle this once and for all.

He had to be doing something wrong. Maybe the herbs were stored improperly and therefore lost their potency, maybe he measured out the wrong amount of one of the ingredients, maybe…

It didn’t matter in the end.

The possibilities of potential errors were endless. In the art of potioneering, even the smallest of errors could result in entirely different outcomes, perhaps this was one of those cases.

In reality, he didn’t care why or how, he already knew he must’ve, no, definitely, made a mistake somewhere during the brewing process. He had to have…

For the last fifteen years of his miserable life, his Amortentia had smelt like the same thing, lilies. Lilies with a hint of willow bark and the overwhelming smell of vanilla.

Unmistakably Lily’s scent.

Every. year. Every single year he had to teach those insufferable brats how to brew the cursed potion he was tormented by the memory of Lily. Reminded of how he had failed to protect her, reminded of how he had hurt her, and reminded of how one stupid mistake landed him a life sentence of servitude to not one but two wizards. Trapping him right in the middle of a war, ensuring his life would forever be dedicated to finding redemption.

Knowing one day, he’d give his life to atone for his mistake.

He carried with him the burden of his guilt three hundred sixty five days a year, twenty four seven, and he would carry it until the end of his days.

But that day, as if to rub salt in the wound, was his own personal hell, personally delegated to him by God, if there even was one, dedicated to guilt and self hatred.

Severus was God’s very own crowned patron saint of guilt and he felt it necessary for his saint to be subject to his very virtue.

Today was that day, his saintly day if you will, or rather, was supposed to be that day.

While everyone usually tended to give Severus a wide berth, students and staff alike avoided the potions master like the plague whenever the Amortentia lesson drew near. Already known for his intimidating demeanor and hot-headed attitude, the week of the lesson was among the worst for those unfortunate enough to be in his presence.

Even the smallest of provocations would cause Severus to fly off the handle and berate whoever was unlucky enough to be within his general vicinity.

Naturally, Hogwarts’s rumor mill was working overtime to come up with a plausible explanation for the Potions Master’s increased irritability.

But no one rumor stuck around for too long, and eventually, students would grow bored after a week or two, moving on to the next piece of hot gossip, of which there was no shortage.

Nevertheless, Severus never paid any mind to the school’s gossip, at least not since he was a student. He found it endearing how valiantly you defended him in front of students who dared to bad mouth him around you, he’d never admit it, but knowing someone didn’t see him as an emotionless bat of the dungeons made him feel just a little bit better about himself.

(Sorry for abrupt ending, will be a part 2 :p)

[v0idim]

Idk where the art is someone drop the art credit in the comments 🙌😜

Small Encounters

Itadori Yuji x Reader

!Basketball College AU!

After accidentally running into Nobaras Friend, a small interest

sparks between the two college students.

1/?

☆*:.｡. o(First Small Encounter)o .｡.:*☆

10:47 AM

Nobara : Y/nnnnnnnnn

Y/n : ?

Nobara : Come to the basketball game with me pleaseee I don’t wanna come alone☹️☹️

Y/n : What time and where

Nobara : Girl. Literally it’s been promoted everywhere. literallt where all the games happen duhhh and it’s at 7. Be ready at 6

Y/n : Dude i never even said yes but okay text me when ur on ur way. my classes end at 4 so i could’ve have time to get ready

Nobara : Okay i’ll see u then love u 😘😘

You place your phone down on your nightstand, sluggishly rolling your body out of bed. You put on you slippers and walk to the bathroom to do your morning routine. Classes didn’t start till 1:30 so you had some time to get ready and eat.

^Itadori POV^

“Nobara did you ask her” Itadori had the same morning class as Kugisaki. He whined to her as he laid his head down onto her desk.

“Yes now give me money.” Itadori had always thought you was pretty. They had attended some of the same parties this year since he had mutual friends with you. After finding out Kugisaki is close friend with you, he used it to his advantage. Using every chance he got to try seeing you more often.

^Y/n POV^

After putting on a decent outfit you headed to the front door of your apartment and slipped on your shoes. Looking at the time in your phone. It was exactly 12. Still an hour and a half till your class started, you went to the nearest cafe to get a snack and some Drink before heading to class.

You walked to the cafe, not driving since the cafe was only a couple minutes away. Passing some clothing stores, taking a glance inside you see your friend shopping.

“Nobara I thought you had class” You Walked into the store and approaching the brown haired girl.

“I did but i left early, I couldn’t deal with my friend, He’s such a headache.” Kugisaki massaged her temples. Linking her arm with yours before walking out of the store. “That store has no cute clothes, it’s all old lady clothes.”

“That’s not nice, I thought some of the shirts were cute.” She eyed you before continuing to walk. “I’m gonna go grab a coffee, wanna come with?”

“Sure! You’re paying though.I paid last time we went out and I’m broke right now”

You opened the door to the cafe for her. All tall figure comes behind you grabbing the door, their arm above your head, now holding the door open for you. You thanked them before walking in, already seeing Nobara looking at the menu. She turned around, her facial expression turning into an annoyed look.

“Yuji what are you doing here.” Looking up at the pink haired boy. You watched them interact then looking at the menu to decide what you wanted to get.

“I was just walking by and I saw you and your gorgeous friend and yea. What are you guys getting? Have any recommendations?” Itadori was now standing right next to you. Standing way too close. Ignoring his presence and the conversation he was having with you friend, you kept on looking at the menu before getting your body yanked to the side by Nobara.

“Leave us alone Yu, she doesn’t wanna give you a “recommendation” you don’t even drink this type of stuff. You only like energy drinks” Nobara seemed annoyed by his sudden appearance. You noticed Nobara getting protective over you, questioning it.

“You’re such a meanie Nobara, I just wanted to try something new.” The pink haired guy walked towards you, standing in front of you. “Hey my name is Itadori Yuji.”

“Hello, I’m L/n F/n” He extended his hand to shake yours. Which you hesitantly shook. “Is he the “headache” from your class?” You turned over to Kugisaki, rolling her eyes at Yuji.

“Yes that’s him. Now you see why he’s a headache?” Yuji clutched his sweater, pretending to be overly offended by her words.

“Such a meanie, this is why no guy likes you.” Itadori said teasingly, he averted his gaze back to you. “She’s so mean to me for no reason. I’m so cool in my opinion, I have cool hair, I do cool stuff, and I’m funny. Right?” He stared at you, waiting for a response.

“I mean I don’t even know you but yea?” You didn’t know what to say, you haven’t even had a conversation with him before but he does seem like a cool person to you. You walked to the register and ordered your drink.Kugisaki ordered hers and right after Itadori ordered his. Catching you off guard, knowing you had to pay for his drink now too. You let it slide since you didn’t want to seem rude.

Grabbing your wallet out of your bag, you look up to see Itadori had already paid for it. ‘what a gentleman’

The three of you waited for your drinks, stand in to the side as Itadori and Kugisaki argued about anything and everything. Hearing your order be called, you all grabbed your drinks before heading out the doors.

“Hey L/n what time does your class start at? It’s 1:18, we should go do something.” Itadori glanced at you, watching your expression change.

“Oh shit, class starts in 12 minutes. And the walk is pretty far. Bye guys It was nice meeting you Itadori!” You quickened your pace. Saying your goodbye and thanking Itadori for paying for the drinks.

“Hold up! My car is right over there, I’ll just drive you to campus.” He jogged to you, matching the same pace as you. Leaving Kugisaki all alone. She turned around and went in her own direction, towards all the clothing stores.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden to you. I can just walk it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. Going late is bad L/n, and don’t call yourself a burden. Don’t worry I’ll just take you.”

He grabbed the keys out of his pocket before leading the way to his car. You arrived to the parking garage where he stationed his car. An all black 2015 GT Ford Mustang, he opened the passenger door for you, you dipped into the car. The interior was mostly black leather with some red accents.

"Your car is sick Itadori." You watch him get into the drivers side, putting on the seat belt before starting the car. A low pur coming out of the engine. You smiled to yourself, you were never a car girl but you did enjoy cars, especially going fast.

"Thanks, if we take the long way, we can get onto the highway and I'll show you how fast it goes." Itadori changes the gears of the car before rolling out of the parking garage.

"I'm so down but maybe another day, my class is almost starting. Thank you though." You glance down at your phone to check the time you had 7 minutes till class started. You might be a little late but that wasn't a big issue.

You arrive to the school campus 4 minutes. The car ride over to the campus was pleasant, you held a small conversation with the pink haired boy and got to know more about him. He told you about his dreams and ambitions, how he wanted to become an all star basketball player some day, moving to the states to pursue his career after he finished college.

"Thank you so much Itadori, it was a pleasure meeting you!" You hoped out of the car, slightly bowing your head in a form of gratitude towards the man. You left some money in the console of his car, he did pay for the coffee and gave you a ride to school.

"No problem seriously, what time does your class end at by the way?" A few cars that were behind him started honking their horn since he was blocking the way.

"It ends at 4. People are honking at you, you should get going." You laugh a little at him as you closed the door, Itadori lowered the window of the door down. He rolls his eye playfully at you as he begins to put his car in first gear.

"Alright, I'll pick you up. Just meet me near the music building." His car started move slowly, you quickly started following the cars pace. Placing your hand on the ledge of the door. You glare your eyes at him.

"You are not picking me up, you already done so much for me, bye Itadori." You walk away from the car, waving at him over your shoulder and start walking to your class.

"We'll see about that!" He yells out of the car window before speeding off. You walk up the stairs to your first class, arriving a couple minutes late. Taking a seat in the back next to an acquaintance, Ogami Hinata.

"So, you and Itadori a thing?" Your eyes pop out your head as you face the black haired girl.

"Excuse me?" You're extremely taken aback from this comment. You had just met the guy and people already assume your dating! You thought to yourself he relationship with Itadori. Maybe she was a crazy ex girlfriend.

"I mean he dropped you off and you guys were laughing and smiling. Do you like him." She glared at you, "Many girls would kill to be in your position, including me! Just imagine Itadori driving me to school." She covered her face and blush tainted her ivory cheeks. "You're so lucky!"

You don't respond to her, not knowing what to say you leave the conversation as is, letting silence take over.

Class came to an end faster than you expected. You step out of the music building and to your surprise you see Itaadori's all back Mustang parked.

Notes - Sorry this was so rushed, should i continue this small ff?😜

[fr3sh-tragedies]

Possessive?

[Mean Girls 2004] Janis Ian x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.45k

Proofread: Yes

Content Warnings: Mentions of feeling possessive, language (?), implications of feeling like a burden.

[A/N]: This is based off of the movie from 2004, not the musical, but I changed a few things to help it better fit today: the characters have modern cellphones and use social media such as TikTok and Instagram.

Enjoy!

 Janis was well aware of how her mannerisms could come across to others who didn’t understand her. She knew that sometimes, even if she tried her hardest to prove otherwise, she came across as overprotective and possessive of her loved ones. When she had been friends with Regina back in middle school, things started to spiral. Regina soon started dating, only a few months shy of moving up into her first year of high school, and started to ignore Janis more and more, especially once things were official with her very first boyfriend. Janis, who had grown accustomed to spending every day with Regina, would text and call her relentlessly. The two of them would make plans, only for the blonde to cancel last minute without letting her know, essentially ghosting her each time.

After this happened a few times, Janis grew apart from the others and left the school for the rest of the year, cutting ties with Regina. When she returned to start her Freshman year of high school, she had a whole new style. Finding comfort in her new gothic aesthetic, she finally began to express herself the way she wanted, long forgetting about the bright shades of pink Regina would force her to wear in middle school. Because of this sudden change, Regina made it known she didn’t approve by convincing others to poke fun at her, progressively growing more aggressive with her bullying. After all, how would it look if she was still friends with the "weird punk girl?"

Soon after she started to become an outcast, Janis distanced herself from others, all except Damian and her fellow art lovers. She found solace in the company of her friends. She sat with them at lunch, chatting away about art projects and contests coming up in town. It was hard for her to connect with others outside of her circle, too worried there would be another repeat of what happened with the one girl she thought would be her best friend for life.

A student transferred into the school one day, however, and immediately caught Janis’s eye. She was introduced to the class, gleefully waving to everyone as she spoke her name, and was guided to sit beside the goth at the back of the classroom. Right away, Janis grew obsessed with her. From the moment they first spoke, [Y/N] was always on her mind. She was dressed similarly to Regina, although she never wore pink. Instead, she wore muted shades of yellow, green, and blue. Her style was comforting in comparison to the eyesore the Plastics wore everyday.

Even with her brighter clothes and nature, [Y/N] seemed to have more in common with Janis than either of them would’ve thought. Both were openly vocal about their opinions, not necessarily caring about anyone else’s views, albeit [Y/N] tended to take on a more open-minded approach. The two of them could also frequently be heard coming back at someone with a clever, snarky remark when insulted or teased. What drew Janis to her most, however, was her love for art. She was silently grateful that the two of them shared the same art class. Eagerly, they’d babble away about what either of them were working on. For each group project, Janis would ask if she could work with [Y/N] instead of whoever she was already paired with, to which the teacher would reluctantly agree.

Rather shortly after their first meeting together, Janis invited [Y/N] to her table, not entirely surprised to see that she got along with everyone immediately upon sitting down. Damian noticed Janis’s interest in her instantly, and once again, Janis wasn’t surprised when he started to taunt her relentlessly for it. He’d even begun to message her back and forth. Here and there, when the texts would grow too frequent too shortly, she’d block him for an hour or two before unblocking him to message him back and ask if he wanted to hang out.

One day, while mindlessly swirling her spoon around in her half full pudding cup as she curled up on the couch, Janis sheepishly admitted that he was right about her feelings for the newcomer to their group. Damian cheered triumphantly and bragged about how he knew it the whole time, laughing when he received a playful elbow jab to the arm or gut. Eventually, he set the teasing aside and asked her if she planned on confessing to her and asking her out. She shrugged, expressing her worry that [Y/N] wasn’t into girls or that she would laugh at her for taking an interest in her. Damian stared at her for a moment as if she were crazy.

“Uh, hello? Janis, are you insane? Have you not heard the way she talks about women? There’s no way in hell she isn’t as gay as you.” Janis rolled her eyes at his words, but reflected on them regardless, wondering to herself if she might have a chance with her. “Well, yeah, maybe. But what if she does say yes to dating, and then Regina or someone else finds out and makes fun of her for it? I don’t want her to deal with all of that shit. For fuck's sake, she just joined the school.” Damian shrugged. “Hey, she seems to be pretty tough. Like you.”

After a few weeks of planning, cowering, and chickening out of her plans, Janis finally managed to invite [Y/N] to her house when her parents were away for the night. The two of them watched a few movies while snacking on junk food, gossiped for a bit, and then bundled up under blankets as the mood shifted. Janis had turned in her spot on the sofa to gaze over at [Y/N], her eyelids lowered as she got lost in thought. [Y/N] noticed Janis’s staring after a while and questioned her about it, worried she had something on her face as she subconsciously swiped at her mouth. Janis chuckled at her motion and shook her head.

“No, nothing’s on your face. I just…” She sucked in a breath, unsure of how to carry out her confession. Her mind wandered back to a few hours prior when she had been talking to Damian about what she should say. She sighed, her teeth catching her bottom lip for a moment before she finally looked back up at the girl seated in front of her, who was now gazing at her with curiosity.

It took several tries, but Janis was eventually able to tell her about her feelings. There was an overwhelming wave of relief that washed over her upon learning that [Y/N] was interested in women. Uncharacteristically, the goth fell silent, too shy to ask the question burning on her tongue. Her eyes dropped down to focus on her nails picking at one another as she tried her best to steel her nerves. Finally, after swallowing the lump she hadn’t even realized formed in her throat, she managed to squeak her question out.

“Would you wanna go out with me?”

She freaked out after a soft giggle came as her reply. Her head lowered, allowing her to hide her disappointment-filled eyes behind her fringe. “Sorry,” [Y/N] murmured, gently grasping Janis’s shoulder. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise. Not about your confession anyway. I’ve just never seen you this shy before. It’s nice seeing this side of you.”

Janis sighed softly in relief at her words, smiling and finally lifting her head back up. “So, is that a yes?” [Y/N] grinned, shifted over on the couch cushion, and placed a small peck to the ravenette’s cheek. “Of course it’s a yes, you dork. How could I say no?”

After talking about a few boundaries after they started dating, Janis began to proudly show her girlfriend off, sneering at anyone who would glance at her wrong. And just as if it were clockwork, Janis was once again starting to come across as possessive. [Y/N] would record a small video or take a quick selfie to post to her Instagram or TikTok, and Janis would always be seen in the frame in one way or another. She’d do whatever she could come up with, wanting to set a reminder that [Y/N] was hers.

When taking a picture in bed to send to a friend on Snapchat or through chat, Janis was touching her in some way, whether it be an arm draped casually around her waist, stroking her hair, or just laying directly on top of her. When taking a mirror selfie, she’d stand behind her and hug her from behind, or casually be doing something in the reflection, such as untying and retying her boots or pretending to check something on her phone. She wanted it to be known that [Y/N] was taken. When they had to go their separate ways for a bit, she'd not-so-casually drape one of her trademark army jackets over [Y/N]'s shoulders, kiss her on the cheek, and tell her she'd see her in a bit. Then, when she was in classes without her, Janis would start sketching [Y/N] from memory. She'd come back to them later when [Y/N] was in front of her to clean the illustrations up.

She wasn’t overbearing with her tendencies, however. Not once did she have a problem with [Y/N] going out on her own or wearing something that showed off her body. On the contrary, she encouraged her to wear what she was comfortable with and be independent out in public. After all, she wasn’t going to be able to stay with her every second of every day, even if she wished she could. She’d compliment her on each of her outfits and even make suggestions that would help her feel more confident, such as framing certain parts of her body.

And after what happened with Regina a few years prior, she made sure not to overwhelm [Y/N] with calls and texts where she was constantly questioning her about where she was at all times. There were times when she would call back-to-back, but those instances only happened when she grew worried. Janis would ask her to let her know when she made it home safely, but if she never received that text, she would start calling to make sure she was okay.

The only time she would make it clear that she was going to go with [Y/N], no matter where she was going, was when she knew Regina or someone close to Regina would be there. The last thing she wanted was [Y/N] being cornered and made fun of without her there to stand in. She knew [Y/N] was fine on her own and that she could defend herself just fine, but she also knew Regina–she knew how brutal and manipulative she could be. She didn’t want [Y/N] to suffer with the same kind of bullying she already had to deal with herself.

During arguments with other students, including Karen and Gretchen, Janis usually blew them off with a quick, witty remark and walked away, not wanting to deal with the headache they would cause if she gave in. Whenever she saw [Y/N] being picked on, however, she would lose her cool. Insults and sarcastic comments would spill from her lips with a terrifying accuracy, never afraid to cause a scene if it meant the person picking the fight would leave [Y/N] alone. More often than not, a teacher, staff member, or even [Y/N] herself would have to pull Janis away and help her calm down. Not even Damian had ever seen her grow so aggressive towards someone–even when Regina was involved.

On more than one instance, Damian truly thought Janis was about to get into a fistfight with whoever she was arguing with.

Even when the two of them were alone, whether it be at [Y/N] or Janis’s house, the goth would get defensive over her. There had been a time towards the end of the first semester when a new dance was growing popular on TikTok, and [Y/N] hopped on the trend almost immediately. It wasn’t necessarily suggestive, but it certainly wasn’t modest either. To add onto the tone of the song, [Y/N] put on a bit of a revealing outfit to fit in with the other dancers.

She had set her phone up in the den of Janis’s home, having been there for the past couple of days to keep her company while her parents were away on a vacation that Janis didn’t want to have any part of. As the countdown timer for the video went off, Janis happened to peek over from the doorway leading into the kitchen, wondering what was going on. As soon as the dance started, that familiar feeling took over her senses. A couple of seconds in, she leaned against the doorway, watching as [Y/N] cussed to herself under her breath, stepped forward, crouched down, picked her phone up, and stopped the recording.

As she started the video over and repositioned it and herself to try again, Janis silently stepped forward into the frame. When [Y/N] shifted to let her hips move back a bit for a move, the ravenette--now standing directly behind her--moved closer and slipped her arms around the shorter girl’s waist. She tugged her firmly against her own torso and gently dropped her chin onto [Y/N]’s shoulder, glaring at the camera and lifting her hand to flip it off.

She knew Regina was likely going to watch the video if it were to be posted, so she wanted to send a “friendly” reminder that [Y/N] is off limits and she has someone with her to help her fight off any teasing she may throw her way. In the back of her mind, she knew Regina would comment on how controlling and possessive she was coming across as–a repeat of their final year in middle school–but she didn’t care at that point. It would crush her if she knew someone was making fun of her girlfriend when she could easily prevent it. Or, at the very least, lessen how aggressive it was.

[Y/N] smiled and chuckled at her actions, letting the pad of her thumb glide across Janis’s arm as she leaned back to kiss her softly on the cheek. “Hun, it’s fine. I’m yours, okay? You know that.” Hesitantly, Janis let go of her and stepped back, allowing her to stop the recording again. She typed something into the caption, then started the video over, asking Janis to let her finish the dance. Janis agreed and stood back a bit further.

She watched as [Y/N] carried out the entirety of the dance. At the end, there were still a few seconds left where the song played freely. [Y/N] improvised a few moves as she chuckled, pulling Janis towards her at the end and letting her wrap her arms around her again. She pressed another kiss to the girl’s cheek and slid forward in an attempt to end the recording. Janis caught her, however, by carefully gripping her hips and tugging them back against her own. She pressed a kiss to [Y/N]’s shoulder with a small smile before finally letting her go.

 She watched with a content grin as [Y/N] picked up her phone and twirled around to face her, smiling ear to ear as she bounced over to stand in front of her again. She tapped a few buttons on her phone before pulling the ravenette into a hug. “I honestly didn’t think I was gonna be able to figure out how to do the whole dance in one go,” she murmured as she leaned back, smirking at the feeling of Janis’s arms resting around her waist.

With a quick motion, she slipped from the goth’s embrace long enough to grab ahold of her hand and tug her towards the couch. As she did so, she snatched the remote from the coffee table and plopped herself down on the middle cushion. Janis followed suit, sitting down closer to the armrest. She watched as [Y/N] clicked the TV on and scrolled to YouTube to browse through the random videos suggested to her, asking which one they should watch first. Janis shrugged and hummed. “Whatever sounds good to you.”

After a moment or two, [Y/N] managed to settle on a video and turned it on. Before she could get comfortable, her phone began to ding and buzz repeatedly, prompting her to glance down at the several notifications popping up on her lockscreen.

She looked over at Janis, who had clearly noticed the sudden attention, and beamed at her. “It’s just people on TikTok talking about the dance. Nothing bad.” She held up her phone to reveal the likes and comments rolling in on the videos she had just posted. Surprised, Janis’s eyebrows raised as she scanned the screen. “You posted it? I figured you would’ve waited until you didn’t have to worry about me ruining it.”

“What? Why would you ruin it?” Janis shrugged and averted her gaze, glancing between the carpeted floor and the TV screen. Her arm lifted far enough for her chipped, painted nails to scratch anxiously at the back of her neck. “Ah, I don’t know. I guess I’m just worried I’m too much sometimes. I don’t want you to think I’m, like, obsessed or something. I mean, I am, but not in some kind of controlling way, y’know? At least, that’s not how I’m trying to have it come across.” She murmured on a bit longer, trailing off and sighing when [Y/N] laughed softly at her rambling. “Sorry,” she whispered much softer.

“No, no, don’t apologize. I think it’s cute when you ramble like that. And don’t worry, it’s not coming across like that at all. Not to me, anyway. In fact, I actually find it kind of attractive when you get all protective over me.” Janis’s head perked up at her words. “Really?” “Yep.”

She smiled, her tense features softening as she nodded. “I’m glad.”

She glanced back at the TV for a second before shuffling forward, sliding behind [Y/N] to hold her and let her lean into her chest. Softly, she let her head plant itself against the girl’s shoulder, hiding the lower half of her face. She peeked out from behind [Y/N]’s hair and watched her tap away randomly at different posts she scrolled past, liking and saving a few here and there. After a moment, Janis let her hand slide up [Y/N]’s torso and down her arm to link their hands together. She squeezed her hand gently.

Too shy to ask right out, Janis leaned her head to the side to nudge [Y/N]’s neck. “You, uh,” she started. “You don’t think I’m too much, do you?” Although she couldn’t see it, a wide smile cracked across [Y/N]’s lips. She clicked back onto TikTok and onto her profile, pulling up her recent video and angling it to let Janis see it from her position and read the caption.

Janis grinned upon seeing her girlfriend’s dance on the screen, humming and nodding once it was finished. [Y/N] swiped to the next video she had posted. Janis then watched the second video, cringing a bit at her own actions being played back to her, but glancing down at the caption that caught her eye.

My knight in shining armor shielding me from all the creeps.🤺❤️

She chuckled softly and swatted teasingly at [Y/N]’s arm. “You dork. You know how corny that sounds?” [Y/N] laughed with her and nodded. “Yeah, I know. That’s the point. You know I love a good cliche.” They smiled at each other, slowly leaning in to share a small, chaste kiss. [Y/N] leaned further into Janis’s touch. She sighed at the feeling of the strong, warm arms around her waist, focusing on the comfort for a moment before speaking again to finally answer the question she had been asked.

Her free hand slid down after dropping her phone, allowing her to cup the side of Janis’s face that wasn’t pressed against her neck. The tips of her fingers gingerly fiddled with the tips of her fringe that tickled her skin, brushing them away enough to let her stroke the soft skin on the ravenette’s cheek. At the feathery feeling, Janis’s eyes fluttered shut. She sighed silently and opened her eyes again when she heard [Y/N] speaking.

“But no, I don’t ever think you’re too much.”

[matchingbatbites]

Inspired by this art by the amazing @mardyart

There’s a New Year event happening in Hawkins, and The Party is on guard duty. 

Their last run-in with the Upside Down had ended well, but it didn’t make them any less paranoid, any less cautious. The entire town population - or what was left of it - in one place was enough to set them on edge a little, and they decided to keep an eye out. Just to be safe.

They split off into teams and spread out, with Steve and Eddie making up one team, although that was a common occurrence these days. They’ve spent the year growing closer, bringing each other laughter and comfort, just taking care of each other when no one else really would. They work well together, and Steve likes knowing that his life is safe in Eddie’s hands, knows that Eddie feels the same about him. 

(Steve should have known from the beginning that he was a goner for Eddie. That such close, consistent companionship would leave him with a fat fucking crush on the other man, although he would never admit it. 

He can’t risk losing Eddie over his own dumb feelings, would rather have the guy as a friend than nothing at all, so he pushes the crush down, plays the part of best friend, and tries to convince himself that he’s happy with just that much.)

They get stuck on border patrol, although neither really minds it. It’s quieter out here, away from the bustle of town, and they sit back to back, enjoying the faint hum of the festivities in the distance as they chat about nothing in particular. 

“What a year, huh?” Steve says when there’s a lull in the conversation, and Eddie barks a laugh. 

��You’re telling me. I can’t believe I became a suspect for multiple murders, found out there’s a Hawkins 2.0 which, by the way, is even shittier than the original, yuck-”

Static briefly fills the air, carrying the scheduled check in of “Dustin here, coast is clear, over,” and Steve ignores it as Eddie continues, “-fought a demonic creature and almost died, like what? Three times?”

Steve chuckles and nods, leans into the warmth against his back. “Something like that.”

There’s a soft hum from the man behind him. “And yet,” Eddie says, then pauses like he’s thinking about his choice of words. Steve fiddles with the walkie as he waits it out, knows that when he’s ready to, Eddie will either continue the thought or move on, and after a moment he feels the other shift against him.

“And yet, I haven’t gained enough courage to kiss you.”

Steve almost doesn’t believe he heard that right. His heart pounds as he shifts to look at Eddie and finds the man already half turned towards him, a soft, fond smile on his face. Is this really happening?

“So.. What do you say, Harrington?”

And Steve nods, maybe just a bit too eagerly, and Eddie’s chuckle drowns out the noise from the festival. “I need you to use your words, Steve-o,” he says, then falters slightly, like he’s just realized he might be crossing a line, and oh no, that won’t do. “Or just leave me here to die of embarras-” “Y-yes! Yes, Eddie, please?”

There are fireworks going off in the distance now, and Steve doesn’t even notice, so distracted by the hands that reach up to hold his neck, to tangle gently in his hair. They meet in the middle, eyes slipping shut as Eddie’s slightly chapped lips press against his own, and it’s sweet, and gentle, and it feels like coming home. 

The crackle of static and Dustin’s voice cuts through again, the teen clearly pissed as he says “Hello? Hello?! Steve goddamn Harrington, do you copy?! I’m not saving your freaking ass if-” 

Blessed silence returns as Steve reaches down blindly and flicks off the walkie, and he knows he’s going to get an earful about it later, but he can’t find it in himself to care right now when Eddie chuckles into the kiss.

All too soon Eddie is pulling back just enough to speak, breath ghosting over Steve’s mouth as he says “Thinking about it, maybe 1987 is gonna be my year,” and Steve smiles.

“Our year,” he replies before Eddie is pressing in again, this kiss slower and deeper than the last, and Steve sinks into it. Yeah, he thinks over the low thrum of EddieEddieEddie coursing through his veins. 

Their year.

[mrghostrat]

i appreciate all the kindness for my uni rejection, and anyone going through the same thing should def read through my replies if they need similar comfort. there’s a lot of “ATAR isn’t everything!” comments tho, which made me realise i haven’t actually talked much about my goals, so i wanted to share a little context.

i’m 30 (on the 17th). i took a gap year after high school and i went to uni at 19. i even dropped out a semester before graduating to pursue the one thing that was making me happy (my first original comic) during a really bad depression (undiagnosed adhd burnout). i got the last units and graduated a year later, a bachelor of game design.

haven’t used my degree once. i went into comics and freelance rather than games. but i also loved that degree and would do it all again, it was absolutely worth it.

i’ve been freelance and self sufficient for 6-7 years, and it’s fun and i’m proud of the things i’ve made, but i’m so tired. i’m specifically tired of having to work 7 different angles to make up one sufficient salary, and even if it ends up being temporary, i’d give anything for a 9-5. have someone else in charge for once.

got to the end of my rope last year and sat down to figure out what i like and what i’m good at. a Life Plan, yknow. i’ve always had an interest in teaching, helping, connecting like that. figured out degrees and became really invested in this new trajectory i pictured my life going on. i was also tired of waiting, because every time i wanted to move back to the city from this tiny town we’re in, somethings come up or delayed it. so zita helped me figure out how we could get the ball rolling and break our lease 3 months early, so we could move back to melbourne and i could start my degree this year. we looked for (and found) an apartment specifically on the side of the city that would be closest to my campus.

i hope that gives a lil context as to why i’m so devastated right now. the last 5 months have been me revving up to start this new chapter at the end of feb and one little email said nah.

the degree i wanted to do was a double degree, secondary education (hons) and a BA of fine arts. i was equally excited for both, because i never got to do a lot of actual art learning in my last degree, and the BA would give me all of that— life drawing, sculpting, painting, wood/metal/jewellery working, digital, fuckin everything. but it was the less important of the pair, when it comes to getting myself a job as an art teacher, because i already have the art experience. it was just a fun bonus, and the education degree was the one i NEEDED.

in nov i had to travel to melbourne to present a portfolio and interview for the BA. they showed me around the studio too, and i fell a little bit in love. i got the acceptance email in december, but i still didn’t have an offer for the education degree. another reason why i’m so discombobulated— i technically have an invitation, but it’s for the less important degree that would just be a money sink. do i go to uni anyway?? or just ignore this invitation and move on?

my state recently made education/teaching degrees free as a way of encouraging more teacher jobs. i learnt about this after i decided i wanted to pursue teaching, so it was just a fun lil bonus that i wouldn’t be adding to my student debt. apparently not, bc i didn’t think about how every teenager and their dog would apply for teaching degrees so they could get straight into uni without any debt. so, even tho i’m a graduate and i’m not relying on school scores, i was one in a million, likely just numbers on a page, and didn’t get in.

there could be other paths. i could start the BA and add the Edu degree later? i could reapply for mid year intake. i could… idk, most of what i could do requires emailing Monash and asking wtf, because i have no idea what’s actually possible and will need someone to lay it out for me.

still feels like i’ve run into a brick wall though. little bit shut down. more sad, not quite angry, but suddenly really spiteful for some reason— like “oh, you don’t want me? okay fuck you then, i won’t ever teach.” so stupid. just a bit fragile rn

[thetaxicabber]

Chapter 11 art for Voyagers of Time and Shadow!

This amazing art by @giselsann-opencommissions I'm so excited to continue getting art for this series! If you've read it let me know which scenes you'd like to see! :)

Hermione stops dead in her tracks as soon as she looks at the door that shows the tormented faces. She reaches out and grabs both Harry and Ron, pulling them backwards, one boy with each hand. Her brown eyes are wild with realization. Evie isn’t surprised she was the first to connect the dots.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Hermione glances between Evie and Sebastian. “Tell me that doesn’t say what I think it does.”

Sebastian winces at her harsh tone. He avoids looking at the glowing incantation of the curse on the floor. “It’s the only way to open the door,” he admits. “Evie and I knew this was waiting for us. None of you need to do anything. We will open the door.”

“Hermione, what is it?” Harry has moved just slightly to stand in front of her, some sort of protective instinct. Hermione is still clinging onto both boys, her face pale.

“Crucio,” she spits and Ron gasps. “That’s how you open the door, isn't it? It's written over there on the floor. That’s why Evie had such a bad reaction to entering this room. She was clearly reliving whatever happened the last time you all were here!”

“It was my choice,” Evie whispers to defend them. They had no choice really. None of them wanted to die here. “It was either one of us use the spell or we all die here like Ominis’ aunt did. I agreed to endure the curse so we could survive.”

Ron is holding his wand out at them, his arm is steady. “This was a mistake. How could you have ever wanted to return to this place? You are not casting that curse on us.”

Harry places his fingers on Ron’s arm. His eyes are wide with sympathy and understanding. “No Ron, it's okay. They won’t use it on us...They are going to cast it on each other, aren’t you?”

“Evie is going to cast it on me,” Sebastian announces, his tone leaving no room for arguments. The trio grows quiet as they glance between the two Slytherin students. It's only fitting that the members of Salazar's House do this. “I hope you know that we would never have brought you here if we didn’t need Harry to open the first door. This place…” he breaks off, leaving whatever he was thinking unsaid. “I cast it on Evie last time. It was the only way to get out…”

Evie’s hand is shaking and she’s feeling lightheaded. She wordlessly moves to the same place she stood when she collapsed in pain. She ignores the stain on the floor from her blood where she smacked her face into the stones. Her tongue feels like it’s swollen or maybe her throat is closing. She never in a million years thought she'd end up here again.

“How did you know how to cast the curse?” Ron question, eyes darting between them. “How do you know? Even a hundred years ago it was unforgivable. It’s been unforgivable since the 1700’s.”

“A book from the restricted section,” Sebastian answers and Evie looks up at him. She didn’t know that’s where he learned it. Though she’s not entirely surprised. He loves forbidden knowledge. It's a quirk she always admired. “I was searching for a cure for my sister. The book explained how it worked and everything. Then I taught Evie after she told me what she faced in her trials. I thought she’d need it.”

Evie never needed the unforgivable curses, though she won’t lie and say they didn’t make things easier for her. This curse was one she used most often against poachers. She never regretted it.

“But they’re unforgivable,” Hermione protests weekly.

“I was one fifteen year old girl fighting a goblin rebellion,” Evie reminds her, finding her voice, which comes out harsher than she intended. She can't let them think less of Sebastian. He was just trying to do what he could to help her with everything she faced. “I did anything I could to survive…I was scared. They attempted to use the curses against me...so I started to use the unforgivables on them too.”

Sebastian squares his shoulders and draws Evie’s gaze back to him. His brown eyes are shining in the firelight. There’s determination in them but also fear. He can’t hide that from her. He's scared of the curse. Anybody would be.

The realization what’s about to happen hits Evie like a stampede of centaurs. The cruciatus curse is agonizing in every single way. Evie felt like she wished for death when he cast it on her. He has not endured the pain from the curse so he doesn’t know how it doesn’t just hurt. It’s pure agony. How can she cast this on him? He's the only person she has ever loved.

“Evie…I’m ready,” Sebastian breath is shaky. Evie watches him wipe his palms across his trousers. "Let's get it over with so we can get into the Scriptorium."

Her wand is still held loosely between her fingers. She needs to maintain a proper grip and shift into her casting stance. But she doesn’t. She raises the wand to prepare and its shaking. She feels the Gryffindor trio holding their breath near the opposite wall. Just like Ominis did. She hopes they won’t think less of her for this. But they are watching. She’s sure they are not able to turn away. Sometimes horrible things are meant to be watched. But Evie can’t watch Sebastian suffer. She closes her eyes and prepares herself, holding out her wand.

[dumbass-tumbler-cryptid]

What if Quaritch tried as a last resort to regain custody and miraculously succeeded when Spider was 15? It's very, very unrealistic, but let's assume that if there was a change of judge or he would be able to bribe someone. So he has legal custody, he can live with his son legally and not cut off from the world. How would everything go then? How would Spider react if he suddenly found out that after so many years of running away he was going to live with his father, what would their relationship be like then?

Oh I’ve got ideas for this so this is going to be a long one. It became a whole au in my head.

So for starters i don’t think Quaritch getting custody back would be unrealistic. If you read the last chapter of cabin Quaritch showed Spider that his court ordered therapist was Max Patel. That would be a huge conflict of interest so with a good lawyer Quaritch could bring that to court and demand a re trial with a new judge.

I’ll change the Cabin timeline a little and say Spider was 14 when he started living with the Sully’s. He’s about to turn 15 when surprise the court gives his father back full custody. Spider tells the judge flat out he doesn’t want to live with him but the judge doesn’t care. The judge views what happened to Quaritch years ago as a miscarriage of justice that he is now correcting.

On moving day Spider runs away. Quaritch calls the cops on him to bring him to his new home. It’s definitely not a great start. His eyes are red and there’s dried tears on his face but Spider glares daggers at him no matter what Quaritch does and never says a word. That’s generally how things go every day for weeks, even on Spider’s birthday when Quaritch tried to throw him a party. Spider just looked at the set up and walked out, hiding in his room to FaceTime with Kiri and Lo’ak.

Quaritch refuses to call Spider by his chosen name and Spider refuses to call him dad. Spider ignores Quaritch if he calls him Miles or Junior. Quaritch does the same when Spider calls him old man. Spider used to call him a fucking bastard ass old man but that got him grounded, so Spider stopped. He didn’t want to be forced to stay in that house any longer then he had to.

Luckily for Spider he didn’t have to change schools in the middle of the year. Neytiri raised hell to get him enrolled in the same private school as the Sully’s and he loves it there. Coincidently it’s the exact school Quaritch would have sent him to if given a choice so he approves. Unfortunately their house is to far out for a bus to pick him up so Spider’s old man has to drop him off and pick him up everyday. Quaritch purposely tries to embarrass him by shouting “bye son I love you!” Spider slams the door and yells “I fucking hate you get out of here!”

Spider’s first week of school after moving in with his dad, he decided to fuck with Quaritch by not telling him about his after school clubs. After ten minutes of waiting Quaritch started to blow up Spider’s phone with calls and texts. Spider had his phone on silent and didn’t even notice. After another ten minutes Quaritch stormed into the school shouting Spider’s given name through the halls for everyone to hear. Spider pops out of the art room looking mortified. “What are you doing.” Quaritch who was terrified answers, “lookin’ for you a ‘course! Y’a couldn’t have told me you were in a club! Y’a didn’t answer your phone. I was worried sick!” The worse part for Spider wasn’t that he got yelled at in front of his classmates. It was that he could tell just how concerned his father had been over him and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. After that Spider always tells Quaritch about his after school activities.

Months go by. Spider slightly warms up to his dad but he’s still super standoffish. He goes over to the Sully’s house every chance he gets. Quaritch hates it. He won’t let Spider spend the night there or even eat dinner with the Sully’s because of how jealous he is. And Spider gets so angry every time Quaritch shows up to collect him, fighting to stay, arguing all the way home, running off to his room slamming the door behind him. It makes Quaritch think that maybe - it’s time they move.

Quaritch asks Spider, “what do y’a think of taken a little road trip this summer? We could get a camper van. go to all the national parks, see some big landmarks..

“I’m good.” Spider doesn’t want to spend his summer locked in a van with his father far away from the Sullys.

“Well too damn bad then ‘cause that’s what we’re doin’.” It’s a huge fight between them for weeks. Spider runs off the day he gets home and sees their shiny new camper van in the driveway. Quaritch hunts him down dragging him back kicking and screaming. Spider refuses to pack as their departure date draws closer. Quaritch does it all for him while he’s at school with Spider coming home to a near empty room, a room so empty it looked like they were moving completely and not just going on vacation. Spider brushes it off as one of his father’s punishments.

Spider is told that they’ll be leaving a few days after school lets out. So he’s completely shocked to see his father waiting for him in their usual pick up spot, driving the camper van. “You told me we were leaving in a few days!” Quaritch just shrugs, “I did. But then I got to thinkin’ what are we waitin’ for! We hit the road now we can be across state lines by dinner.” “But the Sully’s are having a party to celebrate the end of the semester! Grandma Mo’at finally back and I haven’t gotten to see her yet, and I haven’t even said goodbye to my friends!” Quaritch waves him off, “that’s what phones are for. Now get in before I put you in.”

The trip starts off very tense. Spider won’t speak to him at all, but he will have very pointed very loud phone conversations with Kiri and Lo���ak just trash talking Quaritch the entire time. Quaritch turns his dad rock up as high as the stereo will go, making Spider have to shout. When they finally stop for the night they have a quiet agitated dinner outside. Spider is so tired from it all that he’s falling asleep sitting up. Quaritch takes the opportunity to swipe his phone. After Spider goes to bed Quaritch chucks it in the river. Spider notices it’s gone when he wakes up the next morning. Unfortunately for him Quaritch had already been driving for hours. “I can’t find my phone. I think I dropped it outside last night.” “Well what do y’a want me to do about it?” “Turn around!” “Pff, i’m not wastin’ time ‘cause your irresponsible. Now sit down and go eat breakfast or something.”

Spider is pissed but at least he has his laptop he thinks as he starts looking through his stuff. Only to not find it anywhere. “Where’s my laptop.” “How should I know.” “You packed all my shit!” “Yeah well if y’a wanted it so badly y’a should have packed it yourself!” Quaritch in fact left his laptop behind on purpose. Now Spider has no way of contacting the Sully’s.

Spider tries his best to act like he’s completely miserable, but he can’t pretend for long. He hates to admit it but him and his dad have similar ideas of fun, spending days camping and exploring national parks, doing things like zip lining, and exploring caves. They do more touristy things too, like visiting museums (Quaritch loves history museums while Spider prefers art museums) and major landmarks (though they both agree to go early as possible to avoid the crowds at all cost). Early on Spider gets the idea to send the Sully’s postcards so they at least know he’s okay. He has to sneak away from Quaritch to mail them but luckily public mailboxs are pretty easy to come by. It helps him feel better about everything and gradually he actually starts to bond with his dad to the point where it starts to feel like they’re a completely normal father and son.

The summer starts to draw to an end. Spider has been happy with his dad but he’s eager to get home and see the Sully’s. He misses them so much. Plus traveling is exhausting. He can’t wait to sleep in a bed that doesn’t change states ever few days. Spider expects that they’ll turn around soon because they keep going west when they live on the east coast. He’s about to question Quaritch about it when they reach Wyoming. Nothing interesting is in Wyoming so why are they here? They pass by nothing but farmland for hours until finally they pull off the road eventually coming to a small farm. It looks really nice, rustic and inviting. When they stop a bald man, who Quaritch introduces as Spider’s uncle Lyle, greats them at the door along with a boarder collie that races right up to Spider jumping all over him in excitement. Spider instantly loves the pup who he’s told is named Cupcake.

Lyle gives them the grand tour. The farm grows tons of different fruits and vegetables. There a dairy cow grazing in a field, chickens scurrying about in a large fenced in patch of grass, two horses - a father and his son - chilling in the barn, and a barn cat that catches mice. Spider also instantly falls in love with the cat picking him up and cradling him. Spider likes the farm a lot. It’s peaceful. At dinner Spider says, “this is a really nice place Lyle.” “Glad you like.” He says smirking. “By the way cap, I’m gonna head out at five tomorrow morning. I want to get back home in time for my daughter’s first day of school.” Spider gives him a questioning look, “isn’t this your home?” Lyle laughs in his face, “no it’s your home.” He might as well have slapped him. He turns to Quaritch, “what is he talking about?”

Quaritch sighs, “I got a job offer.” “What do you need a job for! I thought you were fucking loaded from all the settlement money the courts gave you!” “I am. But do y’a know how boring it is being a stay at home dad…”. “Oh boohoo get a job as a Walmart greeter like all the other retirees. You fucking planned this all summer - hell before that even, and you never thought to tell me!” “Hell no! I wanted us to enjoy our summer together..” “fuck you! This..this is fucking kidnapping.” “Pff..stop being so dramatic. We just moved that’s all.” “And you fucking lied about it!” Spider runs from the table not able to stand the sight of his father any longer.

Days later when Quaritch finally catches Spider as he’s trying to sneak down to the kitchen, he explains what going to happen. He was offered a job (a lie. He applied for it) as vice principal at Mercer’s Military Academy. It’s a semi-boarding school twenty minutes away. And Spider’s the school’s newest student. He flips his shit, “a fucking military academy! Why can’t I just go to the nearest public school!” “Because it’s an hour and half away! Plus you get free tuition as my son.” “I’m not fucking going.” “Yes you are.” “You can’t make me!” “Yes I can!” “I’m going to get myself expelled on the fist day!” Quaritch laughs, “good luck with that.”

At some point in Spider’s brooding Quaritch tosses his new schools rule book into his room. Spider reads it to get ideas for how to raise hell. Of course he’ll be breaking all the dress code rules which go on at length about the exact why he’s supposed to wear his uniform (neat at all times, no customizations no rips or tears) and the strict guidelines for how he’s supposed to wear his hair (for boys it’s a tapered style of any kind as long it doesn’t touch his ears or the top of his collar). He will definitely be disrespecting every adult, especially his father. He can’t wait to embarrass him so bad he regrets the day he reapplied for custody. Maybe he’ll start a food fight. Maybe he’ll find the school bully and start a real fight. Hell if they deserve it maybe he’ll hit a teacher. Or just his dad. He really wants to punch his dad.

The weekend before the start of school Quaritch takes him into town- which is a whole two hours away- to get his new uniform. Spider is uncooperative as ever, refusing to stand still to get his measurements taken to the point where Quaritch has to hold him in place. After hours of wrestling with his son an exhausted Quaritch pays for the uniforms. The store manager who is equally tired looks at the disgruntled teen and say to Quaritch, “I see why you choose military school.” Spider hears and storms out.

He’s expecting to go home now but instead Quaritch parks the car in front of a barber shop. “I don’t know why your stopping here because I’m sure as hell not getting out.” Quaritch turns to look at him his rage palpable. “Now you listen here. Y’a have some grand idea of gettin’ expelled, but that ain’t gonna happen. Mercer loves a challenge. He loves taking disrespectful, unruly, feral little monsters like you and breaking them to pieces. And the harder you make that, the more fun he’ll have. So I suggest you march in there right now, pick a haircut you can live with,then Sunday night you shine your shoes, iron your uniform and get your tie ready. Or else Monday morning when you walk through those doors lookin’ like your little punk ass self, Mercer will drag you to his office and after that…well choices have consequences.” Spider bristles under the warning but doesn’t break. “I’ll take my chances.” “Fine,” Quaritch says throwing the car in reverse, “I warned y’a. just don’t come crying to me.”

Monday morning Spider does his hair in intricate braids, wears his most ripped frayed pair of jeans, dirtiest sneakers, and a band t-shirt that would definitely get him called a satanist by a pearl clutching old lady. He’s beaming with confidence as he walks into the kitchen. Quaritch eyes him over his newspaper and just shakes his head. Before they leave he puts Spider’s uniform in a plastic bag knowing he’ll need it for later. 

You already know what’s coming. Mercer drags Spider into his office on sight. In the office two muscler upperclassman are standing at attention waiting for orders. Mercer tries to verbally intimidate Spider. Spider just cusses up a storm instead. For that he gets grabbed by the upperclassman and bent over Mercer’s desk for some corporal punishment with a wooden paddle. It doesn’t end until he’s a sobbing mess. Then Mercer breaks out the clippers. There’s a guard on them leaving Spider with about an inch of length all around. Mercer doesn’t bother to undo his braids. They all come off in one piece and Mercer seems to take pleaser in waving them in his face taunting him over the “savage” style. Then he’s made to change into his uniform. Spider’s glassy eyed and numb by this point. Mercer and his goons don’t give him the courtesy of turning around, making Spider feel even more vulnerable then he already did. the last piece of his uniform is his tie but he doesn’t know how to knot it. Mercer laughs at him throwing it in his face. “Go find your father. He’ll show you.”

Spider’s in a daze as he stumbles around the halls completely shell shocked. He sees the back of Quaritch as he’s monitoring the halls for anyone out of class. “Da..dad,” Spider calls weakly. Quaritch whips around. It’s the first time Spider has ever called him dad and he is momentarily thrilled before he looks at his son. Quaritch is instantly filled with overwhelming guilt as he takes in his child. “I…I need help…I…I can’t tie my tie.” Spider hold it up like he’s a small child with a broken toy.

Quaritch ushers him into an unused classroom. “What happened,” he asks cupping Spider’s face to make him look up. Spider shakes his head before bursting into tears. Quaritch pulls him into a hug. “How could you do this to me! I was starting to trust you! I actually thought we could be happy! Why did you lie to me! How could you bring me here!” “I’m sorry,” is all Quaritch can say, over and over again. When Spider’s cries finally quiet Quaritch says, “all I ever wanted was to be a family again. I love you more then anything in this whole world. Not a day went by when I didn’t worry about y’a. I couldn’t know if you were safe, if you were healthy, if you were happy. It was torture. I was so relieved to get you back. But y’a wouldn’t even give me a chance. You hated me from the jump. Y’a just ran off to be with the Sully’s every day.” Spider and Quaritch are still hugging but Spider can hear that his dad is crying. “I’m big enough of a man to admit that I was jealous. And it hurt to have you constantly running away from me. But I was selfish to do all this to you.” They stay in their hug for a little while longer until they both feel the weight of time on them. They break apart, and wipe their eyes. Quaritch ties Spider’s tie for him. “We’ll talk more about this tonight okay. For now y’a got to get to class.”

Spider floats through the morning too emotionally drained from everything. At lunch he doesn’t really have an appetite but goes through the motions anyway. It’s when he’s walking the room, looking for a place to sit that he spots a group of five kids sitting in the farthest corner of the room. Spider instantly recognizes the tell tail features of the Na’vi. He races to sit with them happily greeting them with Oel Ngati Kameie.

Hope you enjoyed. I definitely have ideas for a part two so let me know if your interested in that 💙

[sataniquepanique]

New York, I Love You.

Summary: Eddie plans a trip to NYC for your anniversary, but becomes distant once you land in the city that never sleeps. You know he's hiding something, but you're not sure what.

Genre: fluff, angst, older!Eddie

Warnings: mention of depression/intrusive thoughts

A/N: I'm getting married in 2 weeks (fucking yikes), so I wrote something based on my fiancé's actual proposal to take my mind off of planning shit for two fucking seconds.

“Have you heard about the theory that Van Gogh didn’t actually kill himself?” You chime, looking over the museum map, eagerly tracing an invisible tour path through the winding galleries.

“You’ve only told me about it a million times over the past seven years,” Eddie chuckles as he stares down the entranceway of the Museum of Modern Art. The two of you look incredibly out of place; stark white walls, juxtaposed with tattoos and leather. The soft squeak of your Docs reverberate through the winding hallway, adding to the anxiety that’s been building since stepping foot in New York City two days ago. Something was off with Eddie, but you couldn’t put a finger on it. It started at the airport, he had stopped talking after getting to the gate; chalking it up to nerves about flying, you ignored it. The first day in the city was the same, barely any conversation unless you initiated it, and even less physical affection on his part. Maybe he was still tired from the trip, or maybe he just hated the city? A third reason rears its ugly head and starts to burrow deep inside your conscious; maybe he was getting tired of you. After seven years of being together, of cohabitating in a small apartment outside of Hawkins, of two cats and a dog later, maybe the love of your life was pushing away. 

A hand on the small of your back snaps your attention back to the map. The 1880-1940’s collection is on the 5th floor, allowing you to traverse through the rest of the museum before seeing the one piece this entire trip was centered around.

———

New York City was actually Eddie’s idea, though it doesn’t seem so from his current disconnected behavior. A few months prior he had bounded into the living room, smiling like he had just won the lottery.

“Baby,” he sang in his best, most innocent voice, “how would you feel about going to New York City in July?” 

Your head slowly rose from the book you were buried in. His particular tone was usually only reserved for when he was already in trouble, or plotting something mischievous. 

“What’s your angle, Munson?” Shifting forward on the couch, your eyes narrow in suspicion.

Hand over heart, he looks at you with faux offense, “How dare you think so little of me. I just think we should do something cool for our anniversary this year.”

All your wariness fades to glowing endearment.

“Oh Eds, that’d be amazing! Of course I’d love to go to New York!” 

His face relaxes as he huffs out a relieved breath, “Oh thank god, ‘cause I already bought plane tickets—“

You smile at him, impressed that he had actually planned something ahead of time instead of waiting until the last minute like usual. You’ve been together almost 7 years, and as time went on celebrating your anniversary became less and less theatrical, now consisting of take-out from your favorite Chinese place and a movie of unanimous choosing. Low-key, comfortable, but still full of love, just like you and Eddie.

“—and I also reserved two tickets for the Museum of Modern Art.”

Your eyes almost pop out of your head, “That’s where—“

“—Starry Night is. I know, that’s why I’m taking you there.” He flops down onto the couch, throwing a casual arm around your shoulders as you melt into him.

For your entire life, or at least as long as you can remember, Van Gogh has been your favorite artist. Doing master-copies of his paintings in high school, trying to hard to get his technique just right, obsessing over his use of color to convey emotion. In college you majored in Art History, specializing in Post-Impressionism, spending long nights pouring over books about Vincent’s life and background. As much as you love his work, his story made him that much more intriguing. How a man struggled with such a tragic life and still managed to see the beauty in the world was nothing less than astounding. 

You’ve seen a few of Van Gogh’s pieces in person at museums in the tri-state area, but you haven’t traveled much further. Money’s been tight ever since you and Eddie moved in together a few years ago, but you’ve always had the bug, itching to go far away and see the world with all it has to offer. Eddie shares the same desire, always talking about dream trips and planning fake vacations, waiting for the day you can make them a reality. 

“Eddie, where did you get the money for this?” The thought of possibly spending rent money on plane tickets makes you panic, but he’s is quick to shrug it away.

“I picked up some extra shifts at the shop, we’re fine don’t worry.”

———

Eddie is usually very physically affectionate, constantly having a hold somewhere on your body; but through 4 floors of galleries he hasn’t so much as touched your hand. The lack of contact is all you can think about, barely able to take in any of the artwork you’ve traveled all this way to see. As you make your way to the 5th floor, Eddie trudges behind silently. The awkward tension is killing you, and you’re not sure how much more you can take.

Turning into the 1880s gallery, a small crowd of people gather around the far corner. A glimpse of familiar cerulean and marigold swirls, the same brushstrokes you’ve studied for years, peaks over the top of their heads. You swiftly push to the front, and all of the air is crushed from your lungs. 

It’s other-worldly. 

Every photo you’ve ever seen of The Starry Night doesn’t do it justice, not even remotely. The peaks of paint that dot the surface of the canvas, the brightness of each color, none of it can be properly depicted on the pages of a textbook. After so many years of studying this painting, seeing it in the flesh is almost like seeing an old friend. There’s a calmness in it, admiration mixed with giddiness.

You’re close to tears as you feel Eddie’s presence beside you.

“It’s amazing…” his voice is low, partly because of the subdued setting, but also in awe.

All you can muster is a nod as your eyes drag over every inch of the painting, committing it to memory. 

You have to practically rip yourself away, buzzing from the entire experience. 

Eddie waits by the entranceway with his hands in his front pockets, “Do you wanna go get dinner? I’m starving.”

“Sure,” still unnerved by his demeanor, your tone is stoic and emotionless, “Where do you wanna go?”

He scratches the back of his neck, something only done when he’s uncomfortable, “Uh, there’s this pub across 52nd if that’s cool?”

An audible stomach growl answers for you.

Eddie keeps a few feet of distance between your bodies, weaving through groups of people on the crowded sidewalk. You’ve never seen this many people in your life, even at college in Indianapolis. Growing up in Indiana, your hometown was so small that everyone knew each other, same with Eddie’s upbringing in Hawkins. City life always intrigued you, and up until this moment you had thought of Indianapolis as a “big city”; but it was nothing compared to New York. After high school you moved away to college to study art, choosing Indiana University for its busier atmosphere. 

A month after graduating with your BFA, you met Eddie by accident. Moving back home to live with your parents was the last thing you wanted, but finding a good paying job was proving to be more difficult than anticipated. 

Depression started to sink it’s disgusting claws into your psyche; you felt like a failure. 

One night, in a valiant attempt to bring some joy back into your life, your best friend dragged you to a bar in the next town over; the promise of live music and alcohol extremely enticing. Hawkins wasn’t known for much, except for the weird rumors about mysterious disappearances over the years, so you weren’t expecting much from this hole-in-the-wall bar. The Hideout was kind of gross, but in an almost endearing way. The floors were sticky and the air almost unbreathable, but the staff was kind, despite their rough appearances. The bartender chatted the two of you up for while, making jokes and letting you sample whatever beer you wanted to try, all while some metal band played on the rickety stage in the back. 

A little before midnight, the band had packed up and the crowd inside thinned out to just regulars and a few drunk stragglers. As you sat at the bar and waited for your friend to get back from the bathroom, a stranger sat next to you and ordered a beer, greeting the bartender like an old friend. After exchanging a few light-hearted jabs, the stranger smiled and looked over at you. 

“Cheers—“ he holds out the neck of the bottle towards you.

Taken aback by his boldness, you return a small grin, “Cheers to what?” 

He shrugs, sucking his teeth in thought for a second, “To metal? To surviving another gig? I dunno.”

The guitar pick around his neck catches your eye, “Was that your band playing earlier?”

He gives a shy nod, smile stretching wider and accentuating a dimple on his left cheek.

“You guys sounded really good,” You hold out your own bottle towards him.

“I’ll cheers to that,” he taps against yours, a small clink echoing in the almost empty bar. 

“I’m Eddie, by the way.”

“Y/n. It’s nice to meet you, Eddie.” Normally, you would rather die than talk to a random person at a bar, but there was something about this boy that drew you in. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was how ethereal he looked under the neon bar signs, either way you were captivated.

You stayed at the Hideout longer than intended, long after your friend had decided to go home. Eddie made you laugh with stupid jokes and weird stories, sharing your mutual love of horror movies and fantasy books. You were so enthralled that you hadn’t even noticed it was closing time. Apologizing to the bartender, you asked to use their phone to call a cab. Eddie immediately offered to drive you home, promising he wasn’t a serial killer when you profusely questioned him. 

The drive was filled with loud music and scream-singing on both of your parts, Eddie drumming on the steering wheel to the beat as you headbanged beside him. When he pulled up at your parents house, you quickly pulled a pen out of your bag, scribbling your phone number onto his forearm. He winked before driving away, having stayed a few extra minutes to make sure you got inside safely. Every thought for the rest of the night was consumed by Eddie; something was tying you to him, and you wanted to follow that invisible tether all the way to the end.

———

The 52nd Street pub was empty, something that was shocking upon entry, but you were nonetheless a little grateful for it. The quiet was a welcome change from the overwhelming sounds of New York, a small corner of solitude in the center of the city that never sleeps. Welcome almost as much, are the beers that you and Eddie down immediately. 

Though he normally cannot stop talking, Eddie is being uncharacteristically mute. You have to practically drag out any bit of conversation, forcing small talk until the food arrives and you can focus on that instead. 

After a silent meal, the portly older waiter drops off your check and strikes up a conversation with Eddie about your trip and why you were visiting. Eddie put on his polite voice, smiling and laughing along with man’s questions. This stranger was receiving more from him than you had in days. 

The nagging voice in your head struck up again: he’s tired of you.

You stopped paying attention to Eddie’s side-conversation as annoyance consumed you. There was an emerging throb in your head, the physical pain matching the emotional hurt of Eddie’s complete disdain towards you. At this point, all you wanted was to go home.

The sun was setting as you walk out onto the corner of 52nd, and you squint down the street searching for a cab. 

“Hey—“ Eddie smiled at you for what seems like the first time all day, “—wanna go to Central Park?” He points down the street, and you can make out the tops of the trees seven blocks away. 

You shake your head, “I’m really tired, and my head is killing me. I’d rather just go back to the hotel honestly.” 

Eddie’s face falls a little, and you feel slightly guilty, but then remember how uninterested he was all day. 

Again, he glances towards the park, “Are you sure? It’s just a few blocks away—“

“No, Eddie. I just want to go back to the room.” Your voice was stern, annoyed that he only now wanted to spend time with you. A yellow cab crested over the next block, and you raise a hand to get the drivers attention.

“I would rather share one lifetime with you—“ Eddie mumbles behind you. Only half listening, you swear he’s grumbling about not being able to go to the park, and it sets off a rage flare.

“—What?” You snap your head around to face him, eyes narrow and angry, bracing yourself for an argument.

He’s standing a few feet away, one hand in his pocket, the other holding up a diamond ring. Your lungs constrict, an audible gasp escaping as you stare at him wide-eyed. He grins sheepishly as you freeze in place.

“Eddie…what?” 

“I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone,” He repeats, returning your stare with his soft brown eyes. 

“…are you seriously quoting Lord of the Rings to me right now?” You laugh, all tension leaving your body. 

“Did you expect anything less from me?” His deep eyes search yours, silencing the menacing voice in your head, “Marry me, Y/n. I love you more than anything—“

“—more than Gollum loves his precious?”

Eddie rolls his eyes and snorts, “Obviously, you fucking nerd.” 

Scoffing dramatically, you smile and take the ring from his outstretched hand, sliding it onto your finger. 

“Of course I’ll marry you, Eddie Munson. I thought you’d never ask.” 

Finally, after days of anxiety and frustration, he kisses you, smiling the entire time. You can almost physically feel the stress leave his body as you hold onto him.

Pulling back you grab his hand, interlocking your fingers, “Is this why you’ve been acting weird?”

He chuckles, “Yeah, I was super nervous. I honestly planned on doing it in front of The Starry Night, but I freaked out when I saw how many people were around.”

Your heart soars at the sentiment, and you look down at your hand in his, the little diamond sparkling in the fading sunlight. 

[elisysd]

Prologue

Masterlist - Next

For as long as Julia could remember, Ethan had always been around. Born just a few weeks apart, in the same classes from kindergarten to the last year of high school and living just a few streets away from each other with two friendly families, they were bound to grow up together. It was not unusual for the Leclerc family and the Verstappen to invite each other to their houses for dinner. Their parents secretly hoped that their children would get along.

Julia - 8 years old

“Where are we going, daddy?” asked the little girl to her father who was looking at her tenderly.

“We are going to a karting competition! Just the two of us. I want to spend time with my princess.”

She was excited, it was not every day that she had the occasion to have a moment with only her dad. What Charles failed to mention to her was that they were watching Ethan. It was his first regional competition and a few years ago, Max and Charles had decided to partner into creating their own karting team. Charles already had his but had welcomed Max’s investment with open arms. So naturally, when Ethan turned his hobby for racing into pure passion and showed a real talent for it, he got a spot in the team.

Charles was excited to see him race and gave him his best piece of advice along with Max, under the jealous eye of Julia. How dare he? Taking her father away from her? No, he was her dad. Hers only. Powerless, she watched her dad ignoring her for the rest of the day, too busy cheering on Ethan and supporting him. And when he won, her dad had a big and proud smile on his face, one that was usually only destined to her.

Everything had always been an excuse to bicker, at best, and fight, at worst. The last piece of bread in the cafeteria? A speed contest. An important maths test? You could be sure to see the lights on in their bedroom windows late into the night.

Slowly, over the years, the rivalry had turned into visceral hatred, much to the dismay of their parents, who wanted nothing more than to see their children at least tolerate each other. While Julia had always lived in her father's shadow and had often suffered because of her family name, this was not the case for Ethan, who had very quickly understood how useful it could be to be called Verstappen.

Julia -12 years old

She was proud of her art project. The teacher had asked them to make a vision board and to put their biggest dreams on a huge cardboard. The instruction was clear: Think big, don’t be afraid of your dreams. So that’s what Julia had done. She painted it red, added pictures of her dad during his career with his World Champion trophies and with the Ferrari cars. No one could be mistaken, she was a Ferrari girl. In the centre of the page, written in big capital letters we could be read: WORKING FOR FERRARI. Her teacher was a bit surprised and Julia could feel the judgement in her eyes.

“Is that your dream?” she asked her.

“My biggest one.” answered Julia.

“Well, that’s unusual to say the least. Don’t you have other dreams?”

Julia pointed to her dad and what was written under his picture. Making daddy proud. She heard the other students laughing and a voice that made her shiver with disgust.

“You are a girl. You can’t do that.” Ethan commented.

When his time came, he was being praised for wishing to make it into F1 and being a world champion. Her teacher didn’t hesitate to say that it was what she meant when she said to not be ashamed to think big. Julia swallowed her pride and silently swore that one day she would prove them all wrong.

At first, Ethan only used his name to attract the good favour of his teachers and avoid detention, but the older he got, the more it became an ideal way of attracting girls. And this had deeply annoyed Julia, who saw it as an injustice. Why was everything excused for Ethan because he was Max's only son, and why, because she was Charles' daughter, was she made to understand that she had to work twice as hard as the others to prove that she deserved to succeed?

Julia - 16 years old

Usually, she loved Greece. She loved history and she loved architecture. She also loved going on holidays with her family. What she didn’t love, though, was how her parents had the wonderful idea to go to Santorini with the Verstappens. It was only supposed to be the Norris, the Gaslys and them. The Verstappens were a last minute decision after her dad had come home after his morning run with Max and the idea had popped in his head. The sun must have shone a little too bright on her dad’s head for him to have an idea this stupid.

What were highly anticipated holidays for her became dreadful ones. And it didn’t make it any better, when her friend Daphne, who was like a cousin for her since she was Lando’s daughter, confessed to her after a day spent on the beach that she had a crush on Ethan.

“He is bad news Dane…” Julia told her.

“But he is so handsome! Have you seen his abs? He is like the definition of a Greek god!”

“Ew… Gross!”

“Oh Ju’, surely you’ve noticed. You might not like him but you are not blind!”

She was not. Ethan was good looking, she was willing to admit it. Not out loud though. But she knew how much of a player he was and she didn’t want Daphne to get her heart broken, which would inevitably happen if she started to fall in love with Ethan.

Of course he noticed it and of course what Julia was scared of seeing happen, ended up happening. One day, Daphne went into Julia’s room, late in the night, waking her up. Her cheeks were red and she had a big smile on her face. She sat on the bed as Julia lit up the room.

“Ethan kissed me.” she whispered.

“He what?” repeated Julia, in disbelief.

“It was so romantic, we went to the beach to watch the stars and he kissed me. I couldn’t have wished for a better first kiss. I’m in love, Julia.”

Two days later, she burst in Julia’s room again but this time her eyes were puffy and red.

“I saw him kiss another girl. Right in front of me… And… and when I confronted him he said that it was never serious and that I shouldn’t have grown attached. And… and then he left with the girl, Julia!”

Julia knew that it was not the right time to say ‘I told you so’. Instead, she took her friend in her arms and let her cry on her shoulder. Later that day, when she saw Ethan laughing with her dad and Pierre, she went straight to him, daggers in her eyes and pushed him. It was so unexpected that Ethan wobbled.

“What is your fucking problem?” she screamed at him.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Ju’, calm down…” her dad stood up and calmly asked her.

“Don’t ask me to calm down! Daphne is crying because of him!”

“She needs to get over it.” said Ethan, shrugging.

“You broke her heart! You knew she had a crush on you and you played with it!”

“I was clear with her. I told her that it was just us having fun, she knew that. It’s not my fault if she grew attached. She knew my intentions.” he justified.

“Dad? Uncle Pierre? You can’t be on his side!” she turned to the two adults.

Pierre threw his hands in the air, as to silently say that it was not his problem as Charles was trying to think of a way to calm the situation down.

“Well, I don’t know about anything that happened. I wasn’t there and no, I don’t want to know. But it seems more like an Ethan - Daphne problem than yours Ju’.”

“She came to me! She was crying! Of course it’s my problem now!” said the teenage girl.

The fight was so loud that it attracted everyone’s attention. Soon, all the families that were inside the big rented house came to see what was happening. Julia explained the situation, asking for Daphne to say the truth. The girl was so mortified that she denied everything, preferring to protect Ethan and tell everyone that it was her fault, that she had been stupid and that he didn’t do anything wrong. Julia was so angry that she spent the last few days of the holidays in her room, not wanting to see anyone. Once again, he had won and once again she looked like a fool in front of everyone. That was the day when she decided that there would never be any kind of redemption for Ethan in her book.

Fortunately for her, the more the years went by, the less Ethan was part of her daily life, far too busy with karting competitions, and later F3 and F2. Julia, for her part, had continued her studies, specialising in engineering so that she could work alongside her father, who had become Scuderia's team principal a few years earlier. For the time being, however, the young woman, now 23, was working with Skoda in the hope that in the near future her father would finally agree to let her work with him.

What she dreaded, on the other hand, was meeting Ethan's smirk as he was beginning his third year with Maserati. She knew she was going to run into him, it was unavoidable, but she hoped he wouldn't make it any more painful for her than it would be for him. For everyone's sanity, she knew that the less she saw of him, the better off she would be.

But Julia knew that she hadn't worked so hard, sacrificing her student life by refusing to go out in the evening, spending sleepless nights in front of graphs and mathematical equations, just to let her life be ruined by the son of Verstappen. Besides, they were both 23 now, they were mature adults. The kid games were over. Or so she thought.

Author's note: It's here! It's finally here! The prologue of Gold Rush. I'm so, so happy. I hope you will love it as much as I do. I can't wait for you all to read more about Julia, Ethan and their friends. Also I you want to know more about the Santorini holidays and read Daphne point of view, @smoooothoperator wrote this amazing piece. 💛💛

I can't wait to read your thoughts about it, so don't hesitate to leave a comment or an ask, as well as reblogging and leaving a like. It helps a lot for the story to find its audience. I also have a taglist for this story, so if you want to be added so you never miss a chapter, let me know.

Taglist: @herondalism @aundercover @musingsbyshreya @karmabyfernando @reengard @mycenterfold

[the-lonelybarricade]

Ten Past Five - Feysand NYE

It's six days late, but it's finally here. My Feysand New Years Eve fic, delayed because this mofo is a whopping 12k words. This is my very late contribution to @unofficialfeysandmonth2022 Day 31: Holiday. Please enjoy!!

Read on AO3 • Feysand Month Masterlist

-

Ladies and gentlemen, please note that due to extended strike action, train services will be ending early this evening. If you are leaving this station for London Marylebone, please check your returning train times. The last train leaving from London Marylebone will be at ten past five.

“Great,” Feyre sighed under her breath. She rolled up the soaked sleeves of her coat to glimpse her wrist watch.

Noon already.

She’d woken up late.

Well. Actually, she’d woken up with plenty of time to get to the station. But she’d turned her bleary eyes towards her bathroom door, and the distance between the bed and the shower had felt unconquerable. It had taken her so long to convince herself to get out of bed that she’d needed to brush her teeth in the shower to leave the house on time. Then it hadn’t even occurred to Feyre that she’d rushed out the door without her umbrella—not until she’d taken the elevator to the ground floor and walked out her building's front steps. There was no reminder quite like being assaulted by a winter downpour. If she’d turned back around to grab it, she would have missed her train.

So there Feyre was, shivering on the platform, waiting for her train to arrive, praying she could handle things in central London quickly enough to be back at Marylebone by ten past five.

She hated Tamlin for insisting they meet in person to do this.

She hated him more for insisting it be in central London on New Year’s Eve.

She hated him the most for using this as an excuse to hatch some braindead plan to win her back.

Feyre wondered if he thought she was stupid. He’d probably suspected she’d have no plans, since all of her New Years plans had been with him and his friends. Perhaps he’d expected to find her sad and lonely and willing to forgive him. She could already hear his pitch to come home with him to celebrate. We could start over, Feyre. New Year, new us. A fresh start. As long as she didn’t let him talk, she could just give him back his house key and get home in time to snuggle on the sofa with a glass of wine. Tamlin was too vain to believe it, but Feyre was actually relieved she wouldn’t need to be spending another New Year with his stuck up friends, watching Ianthe hang herself all over him.

Good riddance.

The trains were, thankfully, not very busy, nor was the Underground. And Feyre used the idle travel time to rehearse everything she would say to Tamlin.

No, I don’t want a coffee. No, I don’t want anything to eat. I just want to give you this house key, and I want you to give me mine, and I never want to see you again.

Firm. Direct. Unwavering.

“Hey, Feyre.”

It all fell apart when she saw him standing in the cafe, smile nervous. Charming. He was wearing the cream knit jumper she’d gotten for him last year. The one he never wore, despite how Feyre expressed her fondness for the look. It softened his demeanor.

“Hi Tamlin.” She forced a smile, trying not to look at his eyes, or his loose, shoulder length hair. Things that were easy to miss.

“I got you a coffee,” he said, holding up the cup with that stupid bashful smile. It was the same one he’d flashed her the day they’d first met, when he’d come up to her at her art gallery and admitted he had only attended because he thought she was pretty. “Two pumps of vanilla, one pump of hazelnut. Whipped cream. Just how you like it.”

Feyre stiffly accepted the drink. There was the first part of her plan up in flames. A drink kept her in his proximity, forced them to sit down. She knew that was his plan—he’d never bothered with gestures like this before. She hadn’t even realized he knew her favorite order, and she wasn’t suddenly touched to find out he did know it.

It meant that ignorance wasn’t the reason he’d never bothered, he just hadn’t cared.

The paper cup stung her palms as she followed him to a table in the corner. She could at least take the drink with her when she left. She didn’t need to stay and drink it.

“Here,” Feyre said, placing the cup on the table so she could dig into her purse and withdraw the small jewelry bag she’d placed his key into. She dangled it by the strings towards him. “Your house key.”

Tamlin stared at the small velvet bag. He started to reach for it, then paused. “Feyre…”

“Take it, Tam. And give me back mine.”

“Don’t you want to talk about this?” He asked, leaned back in his seat. Leaving her holding that key in the air, cheeks burning the longer she held onto it.

“No,” she snapped, flinging the bag at him. The weighted metal inside slapped against his chest, any satisfying thunk she imagined in her head blanketed by the soft, thick sweater. He was frowning as he caught it in his hands. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she added. “We’re broken up, Tamlin.”

She watched his hands curl around the bag. She scooched back in her seat.

“It was one drunken—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted. “Don’t you dare make excuses. Just give me back my house key, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

The bag was now smothered in his fist. She watched him clench his jaw, then look back at the bag. He took a deep breath, intentionally relaxing the tension in his posture on the exhale. He tried another smile, but it was poisoned by the irritation in his eyes. “Come on. It’s New Year, Feyre.” He tilted his head, both brows raised high. “Remember all the plans we made? I know Lucien and Alis will miss you tonight.”

“I have plans,” she said flatly. Tamlin jerked his head up, eyebrows bunching into a tight knot. Feyre stared him down, channeling her best impression of Nesta’s cold, cruel indifference. She reached carefully for the coffee cup, hoping that moving her body would help conceal her shaking hands. “So if you could give me back my house key, I can be on my way.”

“Who are your plans with?” He asked.

She remembered watching Tamlin shave his face in the mornings, gliding his sharp razor carefully over his cheek, applying just the right of pressure so that he didn’t nick his skin. She could feel him, pressing that edge into his voice. Not too much—not enough to wound, not yet. But she could feel the razor on her skin, a warning that she was entering dangerous territory.

“You don’t know them.” She made a point to pull up her sleeve, check her watch. Nearly three already. She needed an hour to get back to Marylebone, but she was fine. She wouldn’t be here longer than two hours.

“A man?” He pressed, words gritted. “Is there someone else?”

Feyre sighed. “Tamlin. Just give me back my key.”

“Maybe I’ll hold onto it,” he said. “You’ll never know what will happen if you’re inviting strange men around, Feyre. If anything happens, I’ll be able to help—”

“Tamlin. Let me make this clear. If you show up to my house and let yourself in, I will have you arrested. Do you understand?” She stared at him. Levelly. “Give me my fucking key back.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you, Feyre,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“You know what?” Feyre stood up from the table, coffee cup in hand. She momentarily debated dumping it on top of his head. “It’s fine. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll be staying with a friend until I get my locks changed.”

A bluff, but he didn’t need to know that.

Tamlin scrambled to his feet. “Feyre.”

She was already striding to the door.

“Feyre, let me at least walk you to the station. ”

She ignored him entirely, keeping her head fixed on the cafe doors. People were likely turning their heads at the commotion—the British public always knew how to act scandalized by an outburst. But she didn’t dare acknowledge the cutting looks. They could think what they wanted. She wasn’t going to indulge him any longer, he wasn’t worth the headache.

“I have an umbrella—”

He was cut off by the door slamming shut. Once she was out, Feyre turned abruptly, the opposite way of the station. Knowing Tamlin, he wouldn’t be far behind, and she was at least going to ensure she wasn’t easy to follow. She took a sharp corner so that she’d be out of sight when he came out of the cafe, rationalizing that it was better to waste time walking in a big circle than risk him catching up to her.

And perhaps he wasn’t even trying to chase her down, but that didn’t stop her from ducking into the first Underground Station she saw. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t on the right line. She had plenty of time, and Tamlin certainly wouldn’t be looking for her on the District Line—not when walking a block to a station on the Central line would have saved her half the time.

Worth it. Worth it to avoid that angry knit of his eyebrows and delay the onslaught of texts that would come through once she was above ground.

Three thirty.

It was fine. She had plenty of time. She’d get to Embankment by four, Marylebone by four thirty, and would be halfway home before the final train even left Marylebone.

She fished out her phone once she was in the train carriage, juggling her coat and the coffee cup in her other hand, so that she could pull up a picture of the tube map to ensure she’d mentally mapped out her journey correctly. It calmed her to have a plan, and to know that there was no rush. Though, in the Underground, it was hard not to rush, with the rapid flow of traffic. When she stepped off the train at Embankment, she couldn’t help falling into the familiar habit of long, quick strides, staring up at the signs to direct her towards the Northern Bakerloo line.

Feyre promptly turned in that direction, glancing at her phone to double check the time. Five past four, just as she’d guessed. The status board said everything was running on time. It was all going to be—

“Shit!”

Her phone clattered to the ground as she smacked into the shoulder of someone who had cut in front of her. The impact jolted his arm so that his phone went flying, too, as did her coffee.

All over his expensive looking shirt.

“Oh my god,” she squeaked, pulling to a halt in the middle of the busy tunnel, earning nasty glances from the passersby. “I am so sorry.”

He grimaced as he looked at his shirt, then lifted his head to look at Feyre.

To her horror, the man she had just assaulted with coffee was utterly gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous she would ordinarily be mortified to even make eye contact with—And, oh, he was making eye contact. Unblinking, soul-bearing eye contact. It felt like magnets clashing, the pull so strong it would have been impossible to look anywhere else. She probably should have been saying more, but she was too fascinated by the array of colors in his eyes, some hues so deep they were nearly purple.

She could feel herself forgetting how to speak as he smiled, lifting a hand to wave away the apology. “It’s fine. I hated this shirt anyway.”

God, what did she even say?

He reached down, risking his hand against the foot traffic to retrieve both of their phones. He stood back up in one fluid, graceful movement. “It’s my fault, anyway. I shouldn’t have cut in front of you like that.” Raven-black hair fell across his forehead as he gazed down at the pair of black screens in his hand—both remarkably unscathed, considering neither of them had phone cases.

Their phones were an identical make, she noticed. Feyre supposed that meant she and the handsome stranger had similar tastes. As if it wasn’t the most popular phone brand. It was nice to delude herself that this was some clandestine meeting, as fleeting as it would be.

“Here you are,” he said, deep blue eyes sparkling as he extended the phone towards her. Their fingers brushed as she accepted it and oh no his hands were so big. She didn’t want to notice—she hated that she did. She hated that she couldn’t stop noticing. Long, elegant fingers, with a large vein running over the back of his hand.

“Sorry again,” Feyre said. She told herself she was only breathless because she had been rushing through the station. Her face was so hot, and she dreaded to think about how obvious her blush probably was.

It was normal to be flustered after spilling coffee on someone.

“Don’t be.” He winked. “Running into you was worth a ruined shirt, any day.”

Feyre turned her face to hide her blush. “I should, um..”

He laughed. “Happy New Years, darling,” he said, offering her a small wave before he took off, swallowed back into the flow of the crowd before she could even ask him his name. Not that she would have been brave enough to. Feyre was certain if she learned anything else about him, it would ruin her life, burning inside her mind along with the knowledge that she would never see him again.

It was better to keep the beautiful man nameless.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Feyre assimilated back into the crowd. She clicked the power button on her phone to glance at the time, only to stop abruptly at the picture on the lock screen. Feyre recognized those smiling violet eyes immediately, sandwiched between two grinning men with equally dark, rugged features.

This wasn’t her phone.

Feyre turned, searching for that dark of hair in the crowd, but he had already disappeared toward the Westbound Circle Line. Heart pounding in her chest, Feyre doubled back, elbowing her way through the crowd to chase after him. She didn’t even have a name to call out, not that it would have been heard over the roaring tunnels and the screeching wheels against the track.

The train now approaching is to Edgware Road. Please stand back from the platform edge.

She broke onto the platform where a train was already waiting, doors open as passengers filtered inside. She scanned left and right, but there was no tall, charming stranger in sight.

Doors closing.

BeepBeepBeepBeepBeep

Fuck. Feyre panicked. Her train ticket home was on that phone.

She jumped on.

And as the doors closed, she immediately felt foolish. He wasn’t in this carriage, and she had no idea if he had even gotten on this train. At least the carriages on the Circle Line were all connected. It gave her a chance of finding him as she carefully navigated to the next carriage, then the next. No purple eyes. No coffee stained shirts.

The next station is Westminster. Change for the Jubilee Line. Exit for Westminster Abbey, Houses of Parliament and Riverboat Services from Westminster Pier.

Mind the gap between the train and the platform.

Had he gotten off? Feyre had no idea, but she’d resolved to follow this carriage all the way to the back of the train.

The next station is St. James Park…

The next station is Victoria…

The next station is Stone Square…

The next station is South Kensington…

God, what was she doing? He could have gotten off at any of the stops. The final train home was leaving in thirty minutes, and she still needed to get to Marylebone. It wasn’t like the man had stolen her phone on purpose—no thief would offer their own phone as collateral. Once she was off the Underground, she could call her number, and they could meet each other another time to exchange phones.

Resigned, Feyre got off at South Kensington. It would be cutting it close. She would need to switch lines and double back, then up, but she might make it if she hurried. With an exasperated huff, she followed the signs towards the Piccadilly line, trying to forget the handsome stranger for the time being.

-

This is South Kensington. Change for the Piccadilly Line. Exit for the Museums and Royal Albert Hall. This is a Circle Line train via High Street Kensington and Paddington.

Rhysand stepped off the train, relieved to be almost home so that he could change out of his sticky shirt. Not that he particularly minded. Not when blue eyes lingered in the back of his mind, so wide he could mistake them for the sea. They reminded him of staring out at St. Ives Bay as a child, when their family would go on holiday in the summer. Warm and beautiful and dangerous.

Mor would laugh when he told her the story. He had run into Feyre Archeron, of all people, on the Underground. She clearly hadn’t recognized him, or she simply didn’t know who he was. If he was bolder he would have said something.

But he’d looked into those eyes and he’d felt like he couldn’t breathe, let alone say anything articulate. Feyre fucking Archeron, red-cheeked and just as devastatingly beautiful as he remembered. He wondered where she’d been going, if he should have pretended he was going that direction, too. Hell, he would have followed her to the other end of London just to listen to her talk. He was endlessly curious to know what she’d been doing. Why was she in a rush? What did it sound like, when her lips shaped his name?

Rhys wasn’t certain they’d ever actually spoken a word to each other. Tamlin seemed to very intentionally avoid him at any work functions, and Rhysand had always been content to do the same. He’d gotten used to pretending Tamlin didn’t exist outside of when it was strictly necessary. That was, until Tamlin had started showing up to parties with Feyre Archeron on his arm. Then he became harder to ignore. Rhys had last seen her only a few weeks ago, at their work Christmas party. She’d been wearing a red velvet, long-sleeved dress, which in itself could have been a living commentary on how men were first driven to sin. It hugged her hips the way Tamlin should have been doing—adoringly. Like it wanted to worship every inch of her.

Where did someone like Tamlin even find someone like her?

Rhys had been wondering that question for almost a year now, and he supposed he had his answer. In the Underground, apparently. He’d been paying so much attention to his phone that he hadn’t even seen her until they crashed into each other.

What had he even been looking at, again?

Rhys tapped his card on the reader, following the gates out of the station before he pulled his phone from his pocket to remind himself what he’d even been in the middle of doing before his mind had become tangled up in Feyre Archeron.

There she was again. Smiling at him.

He blinked, half expecting the image was some strange mental projection because he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

But—no. That was a picture of Feyre on the lock screen, her arm thrown around Lucien Vanserra’s shoulder. Interesting that it wasn’t Tamlin. And more interesting, that he seemed to have ended up with her phone in their collision.

That was when the Whatsapp messages started coming in.

Tamlin: Feyre.

Tamlin: Where did you go?

Tamlin: Feyre???

Tamlin: Come back. Let’s talk about this.

Tamlin: If you don’t want to come to New Years, I can come to yours. Just the two of us.

Tamlin: Feyre???

Tamlin: I’m sorry. Tell me where you are and I’ll bring you your key.

Tamlin: Who are your plans with?

Tamlin: Are you with them right now?

Tamlin: Is there someone else already? Did our relationship really mean that little to you?

Jesus Christ. Rhysand could venture a guess as to why Feyre was in such a rush when he ran into her. Knowing he was likely overstepping, Rhys held down the most recent text so he could type out the reply: Hey buddy. Ten messages is a little overkill, don’t you think? Maybe you should leave Feyre alone.

The response was immediate.

Tamlin: Who is this???

Rhys stared, wondering how far he could take this before he crossed a line that Feyre wouldn’t let him come back from. When the phone began ringing, he couldn’t resist answering.

“Hello,” He greeted smoothly. “Feyre Archeron’s phone, how may I be of assistance?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“I was about to ask the same,” he said. “This number isn’t saved in Feyre’s phone.”

“Put Feyre on.”

“Feyre darling is a bit occupied at the moment. I would be happy to take a message, though.”

“... Is this fucking Rhysand?”

“Ah, so she’s told you about me? I’m flattered to know I’m not the only one who’s been telling all my friends about her.”

“Rhysand, I swear to—”

“Oh, what’s that? You’re ready to go darling? I’ll be right there. Hate to cut this call short, but I’m needed elsewhere. Hope you have a happy new year.”

He quickly clicked the end button, marveling at what he’d just done. Knowing he shouldn’t—knowing he’d already invaded too much of her life already—Rhysand clicked on the home button, just to see what would happen.

It unlocked immediately. Rhys could guess why.

No secrets between us, right Fey?

He’d overheard Tamlin say that to her once at a party. He’d missed the context, but the tone with which he’d said it, the condescension, had immediately curdled his stomach.

Rhys shouldn’t. But fuck, did he want to. It was right there. Everything he could possibly wish to learn about the girl he’d been dreaming about, literally at his fingertips.

Okay. Wait. There were some things that he did need to do—like adding himself on Whatsapp so he could send her a message.

Hey! This is Rhysand. Looks like we accidentally swapped phones in the Underground. When you get this, please call this number. We can meet up and switch them back.

Her conversation with Tamlin was right there below his own name. Maybe he could tell himself that his thumb had slipped.

And—oops. The conversation opened. There was the slew of texts that had just come through, but if he scrolled up, he could see more.

Feyre: I am stopping by the post office today to send your house key. Please return mine.

Tamlin: Post office? Why? Let’s meet in person.

Feyre: No. Send it in the mail.

Tamlin: I don’t trust the mail. I don’t want you to lose my house key.

Feyre: If it gets lost, I’ll pay for a replacement.

Tamlin: Let’s meet tomorrow. That cafe by Mile End?

Feyre: Tomorrow’s New Years Eve, Tamlin. Let’s at least meet next week.

Tamlin: You know what? Why don’t I come swing by your place and drop the key off.

Feyre: Mile End is fine. I’ll meet you at 2.

Bastard. Rhys felt less guilty about involving himself.

And maybe he could admit that he himself wasn’t much better than Tamlin, with the way he kept scrolling through their conversations. He wanted to know more about her, what she was like when she was in love, the things that made her happy.

There wasn’t a lot of substance to her conversations with Tamlin. Feyre was clever—and funny. Rhysand found himself laughing under his breath at the dry humor she often used to combat Tamlin’s abrasiveness. She was a treasure, and each of Tamlin’s low effort responses left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The jealousy burning in Rhysand’s chest was ugly. He knew that.

But god it wounded Rhys, in his soul, to know that the bastard hadn’t even appreciated what he’d had. Tamlin didn’t ask after her very often, and when he did it was always demanding. Where are you?? Show me. Rhys was fairly certain he’d blow Feyre’s mind with just a simple Good morning, beautiful.

The bright side is it meant there were many pictures of Feyre out and about, usually holding a random number of fingers at his request. A “peace sign” selfie in front of St. James Street. A wide-eyed mirror shot when she was brushing her teeth, toothpaste foaming at the corner of her mouth. Feyre beaming in front of a canvas, paint splattered on her cheeks like a smattering of freckles.

And when she was in bed. Naked.

Rhys had to sit down when he came across that conversation.

It was a picture of Feyre sprawled in her bed, wearing the tiniest pair of sleeping shorts he had ever seen.The angle was downturned, focused mostly on her breasts, emphasized by the way she beautifully arched her back. Rhys was losing his mind imagining precisely what she would look like melting underneath his touch, sliding his hands along her spine while he sampled every inch of the skin on display.

And—fuck.

He was glad he was sitting, or the next one would have taken him to his knees. Feyre sat in a chair, her legs spread open to show off her glistening pussy. Her fingers were posed at her clit, and her mouth was tilted into a taunting smirk that could have convinced him to do anything she asked. Anything to taste those perfect pink lips—either of them. He would have traded his entire life away, just to have been in that room to see her in person.

His throat went dry. Did she even know how much power she had?

She was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and she was owed someone who would crawl through broken glass if it meant earning a smile.

Tamlin had never deserved her. No one would ever deserve her.

God, he wanted to try to.

Rhysand called his phone.

This is Marylebone. Change here for National Rail Services.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

It was 5:05, and she had only just stepped onto the Underground platform.

Feyre ran, even knowing there was no way she was going to make her train in time. Not when she still needed to buy a ticket. She pushed to the left on the escalator, taking them two at a time. When she burst out of the gates, her eyes darted immediately to the departure board.

5:08.

Please say it’s delayed, please say it’s delayed, please say it’s…

Platform A. On time.

Fuck. Feyre barrelled to the ticket kiosk, frantically stamping in her destination with the pad of her finger.

5:09.

The train was at the other end of the station. She knew, even as she continued to the payment screen, that she wouldn’t make it in time. There was no way.

Her phone started ringing.

No—it wasn’t her phone. But that was her number on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Is this Feyre?”

Oh god. He knew her name. It only just occurred to her that her phone wasn’t password protected because of Tamlin’s rule about not hiding secrets from each other. What do you have on your phone that you don’t want me to see?

Nothing. But she had plenty that she didn’t want a complete stranger to see. Especially one that looked like him.

“Um, yes. This is Feyre. And you are…?”

“Rhysand,” he said with a small laugh. “It appears we swapped phones when we ran into one another.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, watching the LED clock switch to 5:10. In the distance, a whistle blew, and her train pulled out of the station. “I, uh… I’m sorry that I spilled coffee on you then stole your phone. I promise I’m usually better behaved.”

“... Are you okay?” She could hear the frown in his voice

“No, I…” she pinched her nose, holding back tears. “Sorry. You called at a bad time. I just missed my train.”

“Oh.”

Fuck, she probably sounded so dramatic. She could practically hear what he was thinking: So what, Feyre? Wait for the next one.

“It’s the last one of the day,” she explained. “I… need to figure out where I’m going to stay tonight. And I can’t call any of my friends because….”

“I have your phone?”

“Right,” she said on a soft sigh.

“Where are you?”

Feyre hesitated to answer. This man was still a stranger, and she had just admitted that she was in a vulnerable position.

Please note that due to extended strike action, train services from London Marylebone will be running on a restricted schedule. Please check your journey before travelling.

“London Marylebone?” He guessed. Feyre’s face felt hot. “Feyre, stay where you are. Please. I’ll be there in, fuck. Thirty minutes, max. Just… don’t go anywhere. Okay? If you’re bored, my passcode is 1221. I’m on my way.”

“Rhys—”

The phone call abruptly ended.

Feyre stared at the lock screen, at the man sat in the center who now had a name. Rhysand. He looked so familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place why.

With a shaky breath, she slid the screen over and typed in the numbers.

1 - 2 - 2 - 1.

To her surprise, the phone actually unlocked.

A stranger had given her full access to his life, just like that? If you’re bored, he’d said. What was off limits? She scrolled aimlessly through his apps, but he didn’t exactly have any mindless games she could play.

Curious, she went to his photos. What kind of person was he? She could only imagine that someone that handsome had to be a major asshole. She was picturing a homage to the material. Fancy cars and Rolex watches. Pictures of beautiful women traipsing his house in lingerie. He probably collected them like Christmas wrapping paper—pretty, until they’d served their purpose.

She hadn’t expected all the pictures of the stars. Real stars. Some of them she recognized, like the picture of deep space that the Hubble Telescope had recently come out with. She only knew about it because Hank Green had talked about it on her For You Page. But Feyre got the feeling, as she continued scrolling through his camera roll, that he hadn’t gotten his news from Tiktok.

He was an astronomy nerd.

Feyre couldn’t help smiling at the revelation. And the fact that there were no pictures of naked women, just Rhysand and the same two men from his lock screen. On a skiing trip, at the gym, midair at a trampoline park. She might have wavered on those last two photos, zooming in to get a closer glimpse at Rhys in a loose black tank top. Covered in sweat that glazed over his toned chest and broad biceps.

She didn’t think the sight of someone upside down in midair would ever be sexually arousing, but Rhysand certainly challenged that prospect. Gravity pulled at his shirt gratuitously, exposing a tightly corded abdomen that she wanted to run her fingers over. And her tongue, if Feyre was being honest with herself.

Though, to her dismay, there was one woman who appeared quite regularly in his photos. Long blonde locks and big I-know-you-want-to-fuck-me brown eyes. She was exactly the kind of beautiful she imagined would be suitable for someone like Rhysand. There were plenty of pictures of them together, hugging and laughing and pulling silly faces. They looked happy.

She’d never properly met this man, but she could admit she was burning with jealousy.

Especially when she scrolled far back enough to find a picture of Rhysand fresh out of the shower. He’d taken a picture in the foggy glass, one hand sliding through his wet hair, eyebrows quirked in a way that begged, should I drop the towel?

Please drop it, please drop it, please—

Feyre swiped to the next photo and quickly locked the screen, letting it go black before anyone could walk behind the bench to see what she’d just been staring at. Even if it was gone, the picture burned in her mind.

She’d thought romance novels had been exaggerated.

It was wrong to compare. It was wrong to even look. But…

Feyre unlocked the phone again.

Dear God.

He was fisting his erection at the base. From using that single fist as a size reference, it looked like a second fist wouldn’t have been enough to cover the rest. Ferye had seen his hands, she knew that they dwarfed her own. Would she even be able to wrap her hand around it? Or her—

No. She couldn’t let herself fantasize about being on her knees for a man who hadn’t even consented to being seen naked. Who probably had a very lovely blonde girlfriend. Oh my god, what was she doing? Why was she like this?

She locked the phone again, pushing it into her pocket to curb the urge to keep looking at that photo. It was far too tempting to zoom in on that flushed head and imagine…

Feyre walked stiffly towards the toilets. She needed to splash cold water in her face and get a grip. One stunning man with vibrant eyes, and she’d suddenly lost touch of all her sensibilities.

Meeting her own eyes in the mirror was an effort, how was she going to manage when it was Rhysand? Her cheeks were stained with the evidence of what she’d just been doing, and she took more than a few minutes to press cold water on them, willing the flush away. Unfortunately the water couldn’t wash away the image that had imprinted in her brain.

Rhysand’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

I’m here. Please tell me you haven’t left.

Her feet felt heavier than they’d been when she came into the bathroom. Feyre had to drag them out the door, back into the station center. There were no more trains running, so it was practically empty save for the man who stood beneath the departure board, craning his neck in every direction as he searched for her.

No—his phone.

Feyre was just an inconvenience to him.

He turned at her approach, and she watched his expression melt from concern to relief.

“Thank god,” he said, closing the distance between them much faster than Feyre would have liked. There was still a coffee stain over the entire front of his shirt, not that he seemed to notice or care. “I was so worried you’d left.”

“There was nowhere to leave to,” was her response. She couldn’t help cringing at the complaint in her voice. It was meant to be a light hearted comment.

He laughed softly. “Right—sorry about your train,” he said, sounding as if he didn’t mean it at all. She supposed it was more convenient for him this way.

Feyre couldn’t help feeling annoyed at the growing smile on his face at the expense of her misfortune, even when it made her heart flutter to see that smile up close. It helped to know he was at least a little bit of an asshole. It made it easier to find peace with his absurdly attractive face and his obscenely large—

“Anyway.” Feyre reached into her pocket, holding his phone out to him. “I believe this is yours.”

“Ah, yes.” He responded in kind, retrieving her phone from his front pocket. It was torture, watching the way his fingers curled around the plastic, sending her mind elsewhere as he clicked the power button. A picture of herself and Lucien lit up the once black screen. “Lucien Vanserra?”

Feyre blinked in surprise. “You know him?”

“I work with him,” Rhysand said. There was a note to his voice that made it unclear how he felt about that statement. “Are you and he…?”

Oh. Oh. “No!” She said quickly. “No, not at all, Lucien’s just a…” Friend, she almost said. But she wanted to make sure he believed her. So she said, “He’s my brother-in-law.”

Lucien was the reason she’d ever met Tamlin to begin with. He’d invited his work colleagues to her art gallery as a favor, assuring at least a few of them would make for wealthy clientele. She wondered if that meant Rhysand had been invited, too, and she hadn’t even noticed. If he worked with Lucien, he also worked with Tamlin. How many times had they come so close to meeting and simply passed right by?

The tragedy of her life was that if he had come up to her at the art gallery, she would have forgotten all about the cute blonde man who’d been flirting with her. Tamlin who? She wouldn’t have even kept his business card.

“I see,” Rhys said. Did she imagine the relief in his voice?

In any case, Rhysand must not know Lucien particularly well, if he was unaware that Lucien was married to Elain. Feyre swore every other sentence that came out of his mouth began with, Elain and I… They were the kind of lovesick that always made Feyre wonder what was broken between herself and Tamlin. So many things, it turned out.

For someone who was so eager to get his phone back, he tucked into his pocket with remarkably little attention. For all he knew, she could have wiped the entire thing clean, or used his virtual wallet to buy herself something lavish or—anything. And he put it away without even looking, staring at her like it didn’t matter to him at all.

“Seeing as you’ve missed your train home, would you like to come celebrate New Years with me? And my friends, that is. The five of us are just getting together for some drinks at my place. It’s very casual.”

“Oh,” Feyre reeled back, trying to process this change of direction. “Uh…”

“I know. I know. We’re strangers. You don’t really know me. But I know Lucien—call him up. I’m certain he’d vouch for me.”

She hesitated. Yes, she wanted to say. But… going to his house? Meeting his friends? It was too much, even if she was attracted to him. “I don’t know Rhysand…”

“Rhys,” He said. “Call me Rhys, please.”

“Rhys,” she corrected, not missing the way his gaze flickered to her mouth.

“Do you have anywhere you can stay?” He pressed.

Feyre bit her lip. The only person she could think to stay with would be Tamlin. Either that or risk an extortionate hotel room.

“Okay.” It was quiet. Resigned. But she wouldn’t have thought so from Rhysand’s triumphant grin.

“Good.” She could tell he meant it. Rhysand extended his hand towards her. “Come on. It’s not far, but we’ll have to go back through the Underground.”

She took it, not really knowing why. His fingers curled around hers and didn’t let go. Instead he smiled, lifted his arm over her head, and spun her, like it was a dance as he guided her back toward the Underground gate.

Smooth. Feyre could give him that much. But she hadn’t forgotten the blonde girl she’d seen in his phone.

“Tell me Feyre,” he purred once they stepped onto the right hand side of the escalator. He turned so that he was facing her, still taller despite being on the lower step. “Anything about yourself. Whatever you think is relevant.”

“Um. I’m an artist?”

“I know,” he said, something unreadable in his eyes. “Lucien invited me to your first gallery show. I have one of your pieces hanging in my living room.”

Feyre gasped. She’d sold all of five pieces that evening. Three to extended family, one to Tamlin, and one to… “That was you?”

She’d never met the anonymous buyer, and she’d always assumed it was another one of her family members trying to encourage her.

If she didn’t know better, she would have said that was a blush growing on Rhysand’s cheeks. “It’s one of my favorite pieces,” he admitted.

Feyre could remember it well. She’d painted the night sky—stars and the moon and clouds and just endless, dark sky. She’d never really known why, just that she’d been staring out her window one night and something had seemed to call to her. She supposed, as an astronomy nerd, the image had called to him, too.

“Your turn,” she said.

Rhys cocked his head, searching her face. “Pardon?”

“I told you something about myself.” They stepped off the escalator and descended back into the winding tunnels. “Now it’s your turn to tell me something about you.”

He seemed to think for a long moment. “I’m an older brother,” he said. “I technically only have one sibling.”

“Technically?”

“Well…” Rhys stared ahead as they turned onto the platform, eyes flush with warmth. “I have one little sister. She’s in Year 11. But I also have two friends that I consider brothers. And a cousin who might as well count, too.”

“So many people to look after,” Feyre teased. “You must be very responsible.”

“I believe you are the first to hold that opinion of me, Feyre darling.” Rhysand leaned close, so that his breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “Your turn.”

And so it went, back and forth trading little facts about themselves, until they stepped off the train at South Kensington. There was no way. Had he gotten off at this station when she’d been trying to chase him down?

“Not too far from here,” he murmured. “Though it does look like it’s coming down pretty hard.”

Rhysand withdrew an umbrella from his jacket pocket, pausing like he was waiting for Feyre to do the same.

“I…” She didn’t want to explain that she’d been in such a rush not to miss her train that she’d left it at home. How dysfunctional must she look to him?

He shrugged. “All the better. Come share with me.”

No, certainly not all the better. Rhys opened his arm, encouraging Feyre to tuck herself against his body so they could both fit beneath the umbrella that was really only big enough for one person.

They stepped into the rain and we’re immediately embraced by the sound of water droplets thudding against the plastic. Rhys used the arm around her shoulder to protectively tug her closer, practically shoving her face into his neck.

“You smell like coffee,” she blurted before she could help herself.

His chest shook beneath his laugh. “That’s my cologne, Eau de Feyre. It’s limited edition, unless you’re feeling up to making this a regular occasion.”

“What, spilling my coffee on you in the Underground?”

He hummed. “Something like that.”

They took a turn onto a gated road. It was lit intermittently by streetlights that had been reduced to a fuzzy glow in the rain. Rhys pulled them to a stop in front of a white terraced house and while Feyre was marveling at the size of it, he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Could you grab my keys for me, darling? They’re in the front pocket of my trousers.”

With one hand holding the umbrella and the other wrapped securely around her, Feyre supposed there was no other way to retrieve the keys unless they broke apart. But Rhysand clearly didn’t want to risk either of them getting wet.

And maybe… maybe he was flirting with her. It was too dark to gauge his expression, but she heard his breath hitch when she slid her hands against his leg. She’d seen in the photos that he was toned, though it hadn’t truly prepared her for the feeling of dragging her palm over the hard, powerful muscles.

Rhysand had gone stiff. When her fingertips skimmed his inner thigh, he made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a groan. Feyre knew the second they stepped inside, he would be able to see that her face was bright red. Why did they make men’s pockets so much deeper than women’s?

At last, her fingers slipped around the keyring. She withdrew quickly, stumbling out of his grip. Rain droplets splattered on the back of her neck and the icy cold that lurched down her spine was a welcome reprieve from his touch.

Rhys extended the umbrella towards her, trading it for his keys. Feyre watched, numbly, as he quickly ducked into the rain to unlock his front door. He glanced over his shoulder as the door pushed open, somehow unbothered by the rain pressing into his skin, its weight dragging inky wisps of hair across his forehead. The heavy downpour turned the rest of the world to static, narrowing her entire world down until it was just Rhysand and the stupid smile on his face as light flooded from inside, haloing his back.

“Welcome home, Feyre darling.”

She swallowed past a lump forming in her throat. Nerves. Butterfly shaped nerves that were beating furiously to escape.

It was warm inside. Her fingers tingled at the sudden change in temperature, and she struggled with the mechanism of the umbrella until Rhys laughed softly and took it from her, easing it back into its compact form with a click of a button. Sly.

“Can I take your coat?”

His house was big for central London. But the entryway was too small for the heat in his gaze as Feyre breathed, “Yes please.”

Rhys stepped behind her, fingers brushing against her collarbone as he grasped the collar of her coat. As smoothly as he had twirled her in the station, Rhys glided the coat off her shoulders and hung it on a nearby hook.

“I should probably text my cousin,” he said. “Ask her to bring some spare clothes.”

Feyre turned, prepared to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but he had already opened his phone. His mouth fell open at what lay on the screen and—too late—Feyre remembered the picture she’d been staring at when his phone had last been unlocked.

“Rhys…”

Fuck, what did she even say?

He clicked his phone shut, jaw working. With anger? It was hard to read the darkness in his expression.

Feyre tried to steady herself for the tension she could see coiling in his body, preparing for an outburst as Rhys pocketed his phone and prowled forward. She instinctively took a step back, only for her shoulders to meet the unforgiving wood of his front door.

“Curious about me, Feyre?” He braced a hand on either side of her, gripping the door frame. “Did you find anything interesting when you went looking through my phone?”

“You gave me the passcode,” she whispered. “You never said…”

“No,” Rhys agreed. He was staring at her mouth. “I wanted you to do whatever you pleased.” The butterfly was back, a pulse in her throat that she couldn’t escape. Rhys met her eyes. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything!” She insisted. “I just…”

A sly smile quirked at his lips, close enough that his breath caressed her lips. “You just found it?”

“Yes,” she said, aware of every inch between them, the distance smaller and smaller.

“Did you like what you found?”

Feyre hesitated. It was an admission she couldn’t come back from.

Just then, the door at her back creaked open.

“Hello?” said a voice tinged with confusion at the unexpected resistance.

Feyre and Rhysand stumbled backwards, clearing room for the blonde woman on the other side. She beamed when she saw them and Feyre’s butterflies turned to stone, dropping into a pit deep inside her chest.

“Rhys!” The blonde greeted pleasantly. “Who’s this?”

“Ah…” Rhys touched a hand to the back of his neck. “Mor, this is Feyre. Feyre, this is Mor.”

“So nice to meet you Feyre!” The blonde threw her arms around Feyre’s shoulders like they’d been friends all their lives. “Are you going to be celebrating with us?”

“Yes,” Rhys answered before Feyre could make up an excuse and book it out of there.

Sleeping on a park bench sounded really nice, suddenly.

“Oh good! The boys are just behind me. We raided everyone’s liquor cabinet.” She turned towards Feyre and grinned conspiratorially. “I hope you like drinking.”

“Oy!” A deep, masculine voice called. “Get the door!”

Mor turned on her heel, pulling the door open to two bulking men that Feyre instantly recognized from Rhysand’s lockscreen. They were carrying a storage crate filled with bottles of alcohol. The one at the front, with wavy hair that fell to his shoulder, paused when he saw Feyre. He raised a slit eyebrow. “Who’s this?”

Rhysand placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is Feyre. My guest for the evening. Feyre, these are the brothers I told you about. Cassian and Azriel.”

She nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

They were both flickering their eyes to Rhys, then back to Feyre, in some silent communication between friends. Rhysand’s eyes had gone wide, practically pleading. Whatever that look meant, Cassian cut her a toothy grin.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “The artist herself.”

Mor’s hands flew to cover her mouth. “I forgot! You made that painting!”

“What happened to your shirt?” That was the one at the back, the darker one. Broodier in expression, his eyes narrowed on the coffee stain.

“Collision on the Underground,” Rhys answered noncommittally. His hand, still clasped on Feyre’s shoulder, squeezed lightly. “Why don’t you guys set up while I show Feyre to the guest bedroom, hmm?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cassian muttered.

Rhys ignored them as he led Feyre down the hall, then up the stairs. The voice of that blonde woman—the trill of her laughter—followed them. Rhysand gripped the banister so tightly Feyre could see the whites of his knuckles.

What was Ferye even doing there?

He paused in front of a white door, sliding his hands into his pockets as he braced himself against the door frame. “This one's yours.” He nodded his head. “I’m the one across. I’m just going to change into a new shirt, but take your time if you want to freshen up. Hell, take a bath if you want.”

“I’m—”

“I’ll get you a towel. There should be some shampoo in the ensuite—”

“Rhys, I’m fine. Thank you.”

He looked sheepish. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Um…” He’d already started to turn, but whirled immediately at the sound. Feyre stared at the soaked sleeves of her jumper. Rain and sweat had made the fabric unbearably itchy. “Would I be able to borrow a top? If it’s too invasive, don’t worry—”

“No,” he interrupted. “No, not at all. Here, come with me.”

She followed him across the hall, faltering when he pushed his bedroom open and gestured her in. Rhyand leaned in so he could shut the door behind her. They paused, too close, and she watched his Adam's apple bob as he studied her, then pushed off the door.

Feyre stayed where she was, safe from the thrall of his proximity, as he strode across the room and opened a drawer. “What do you like? Jumpers, t-shirts, hoodies? The heating’s on, but still it’s a bit…” He glanced over his shoulder at her, and Feyre finally noticed the flush crawling up the golden brown column of his throat. “It’s a bit chilly.”

“Um.” Feyre shifted weight on her feet. “Just a hoodie or a jumper is fine.”

Rhysand nodded towards the drawer. “Take your pick. I’ll change in the bathroom.”

Once he was gone, it was like a weight cut loose. Feyre ventured forward without worrying about that violet gaze assessing her as she ran her hand over the various soft fabrics. They were all so neatly folded. Her fingers snagged on a navy knit jumper.

“Rhys? Wouldn’t Mor mind that I’m wearing your clothes?”

“What?” Even muffled through the door, she could hear the frown in his voice. “No. Why would Mor care?”

“Well…” Feyre hesitated, absently thumbing the soft cable pattern. “Mor seems lovely, but personally I would be bothered by some random girl wearing my boyfriend's clothes.”

Something clattered to the floor in the bathroom.

Then the door tore open, and Rhys was standing there with wide eyes. “What?”

The entire front of his shirt was unbuttoned, falling open to expose his muscular chest and stomach. Her hands fell away from the drawer. “Maybe it’s just a girl thing,” she said defensively.

“Mor and I…” Rhys wavered as he ran both hands through his hair. Feyre tried not to pay attention to the way his muscles flexed in response. “We’re cousins.”

That stunned her into silence. Rhys had mentioned his cousin on the train, but he hadn’t assigned a name to her, she’d just assumed that the woman in his phone was his girlfriend.

“So you’re not…?”

“I’m single, for the record.” he said. Holding her eyes in a way that made her mouth go dry.

“Right.” She hastily turned back to the drawer, busying herself with unfolding the jumper. “Well. Good to know.”

“Feyre.”

The floorboards creaked behind her. She didn’t turn around.

He said behind her, so close the skin on the back of her neck tingled, “A thought for a though, darling?”

“What?”

“Tell me something that you’re thinking.” His voice was a soft seduction at her ear. “In exchange, I’ll do the same.”

He still wasn’t touching her. Feyre was too afraid to turn around to see just how close he was—certainly close enough that his body heat warmed her back. “I’m thinking… that this jumper must have been expensive.”

Rhysand’s laugh scraped against the thin space between them. “I’m thinking that it would look exquisite on you.”

“I’m thinking that it would feel like wearing a cloud.”

“I’m thinking that I would prefer you didn’t wear it.”

She dropped the fabric back into the drawer. “Oh—”

“I would prefer you didn’t wear anything at all.”

Oh. Thank god his back was to her. Feyre had never had much of a poker face, and she was certain her expression would have given everything away. “I think that doesn’t sound like very appropriate attire for a New Years party.”

“It’s appropriate attire for my bedroom.” He leaned closer, lips a phantom touch on her neck. “Don’t you think?”

Feyre bit her lip at the invitation. Rhysand had braced a large hand along the curve of her hip, ever-so-polite considering the proposition he’d just made. She believed if she told him no, he’d drop it and take them back downstairs like nothing had happened.

She needed to know that.

“I think that your friends are waiting for us.”

His hand fell away. Feyre turned, unsurprised to see Rhys had taken a step away from her, and now wore an easy smile as he slid his hands into his pockets. “Best not keep them waiting then, hmm?”

Feyre buried her nails into her palm. It didn’t sting nearly as much as the immediate, burning regret. Oblivious, Rhys disappeared back into the bathroom—presumably to give her privacy to change into his sweater.

What was she doing?

In the midst of some divine intervention, she was at an absurdly attractive man’s house, in his bedroom, and she turned him down because… why? Because she wanted to ensure he understood the word no, even when all she’d wanted to say was yes. Yes, yes, yes. And so what, if that was all that he wanted? It was normal for people to have one night stands on New Years. As a newly single woman, she should be having fun.

Feyre peeled off her jumper with a small huff. Maybe it was for the better. This whole ordeal was so unexpected, she wasn’t exactly prepared for it. Her underwear was mismatched and not exactly interesting. Not to mention it was the middle of winter, so she hadn’t bothered shaving regularly since the breakup.

Midway through pulling Rhysand’s jumper over her head, Feyre faltered, and instead she pressed her face against the fabric to smother a groan of frustration. At least she was right—It was like a cloud. A soft, Rhysand-scented cloud that only reminded her what an idiot she was. And a coward.

There was a small knock on the bathroom door. “Feyre? Am I good to come out?”

Right. Time to pull herself together.

“Yeah.”

Rhys emerged. Just like before, his eyes went wide as he looked at her. He stumbled to such a clumsy stop that he had to catch himself against the doorframe.

“Thought for a thought, Rhys?” She asked. Feyre watched him work his throat, like words were suddenly an effort for him. Steeling her nerves, she said, “I’ll go first.”

That first step towards him was the most difficult. It became easier after she saw the way he was watching—like a man who’d seen God. The muscles in his arms strained as his grip tightened on the wood. It gave her confidence to keep going.

“I’m thinking that actually, you were right about the appropriate bedroom attire. And…” her voice shook, she hoped under the guise of raspiness. She came to a stop in front of him, quietly impressed by the way he held her gaze as she whispered, “I think you’re overdressed.”

As if it was permission, his eyes finally flickered downwards, surveying the swell of her breasts held up by a simple black bra.

He spoke slowly, voice like gravel. “I think you should get on my bed.”

“Or what?”

Rhys shifted his weight—the only warning she had before he lunged forward, hooking his arm around her waist to pull her against his body. He said roughly, “Or I won’t be able to make it that far.”

If he intended to let her try, he didn’t do a very good job of it. His grip was iron tight, and there was no going anywhere from him but closer. Not that she wanted to. Feyre tangled her hands in his hair, still damp from the rain, and tugged him down until their lips touched.

It was gentle—softer than she expected, given the way his body was trembling. She could feel in the way he was holding her, that careful control not to come on too hard, too fast. But she had slammed into him on the Underground, she’d seen him naked before she knew his name, she’d missed her train chasing after him. There was nothing about this that had been controlled. What was the point in being reckless, in going home with a stranger and standing topless in his bedroom, if they weren’t going to throw their whole selves at each other?

Feyre wound her fingers through his hair until she wore the locks like rings, creating the perfect handle for her to tug, saying, give me more. Give me you. With their bodies flush, she could feel Rhysand harden against her, and she groaned into his mouth.

That sound snapped whatever leash he held on himself. Rhys surged forward until Feyre’s back hit the bedroom wall. The next second, he dropped to his knees, keeping her captive in his arms so he could lay praise with his lips over her bare stomach. She squeaked in surprise, earning a wicked laugh in the back of his throat.

“I warned you,” he murmured as he nuzzled a path from her navel to the waistband of her leggings. “I wasn’t going to make it to the bed.”

Calluses scraped her skin as Rhysand’s hands trailed over the shape of her waist with the same measure of reverence she’d seen sculpters use to meld clay. They stopped at the top of her leggings, fingers curling beneath the fabric, tugging to create enough space so he could taste her hip bone.

From the way he passionately sucked and bit and licked at her skin, Feyre knew she was going to be covered in lovebites. Tamlin had always left bruises, too, but… these felt different. She’d never been undressed like this. On his knees in front of her, peeling her leggings down slowly so he could savor every inch of skin, Rhysand’s mouth felt less like a claiming and more like a devout man paying his oblation.

He stopped at her knees, perhaps sensing she was losing her balance, and tugged the rest of the way down. Feyre had never felt so exposed, standing bare before a man on his knees. It didn’t help that she couldn’t see his face—his eyes were downturned as his hands folded delicately behind each of her ankles. He slid them up, slowly, over her calves, behind her knees, raising until they fell just below her bum.

“Beautiful,” he rasped, staring at her with what could only be described as awe. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Feyre.”

Suddenly her throat felt tight. “Rhys.”

Her hands tangled back into his hair, trying to urge him up so she could kiss him again.

Rhys resisted in favor of nuzzling the junction between her hip and thigh. “I want to taste you,” he whispered—pleaded. She hesitated, thinking about how little she had prepared, but Rhysand’s fingers were digging into her backside, and he was mouth at her inner thigh with a hunger she had never seen in anyone.

She dropped her hands, a silent concession that gave Rhys all the permission he needed. Her hands scrambled against the wall for balance, something to hold herself above water, as all the coiled tension finally snapped. Rhys sprung forward, hands guiding her hips to meet him halfway as he buried his face into her cunt.

Rhysand’s nose touched her first, guiding unhurried through the seam of her lips as the flat of his tongue followed. He held her eyes as he licked her—for as long as he could, anyway, until his eyes fluttered shut, and he licked her again. And again. Slow, broad licks that curled warmth up her spine.

She wasn’t used to this. Tamlin had been willing to go down on her, but it had always been a part of quid-pro-quo. He had never been particularly enthusiastic about it—certainly not Rhys, grunting against her skin, utterly lost in what he was doing. He was kissing her with open mouthed passion, savoring her on his tongue, and when he moaned—a wet, garbled sound—it offered just enough friction that her hips bucked forward of her own accord, grinding against his tongue.

Rhys moaned again, this time in encouragement. She rolled her hips experimentally, and his hands pushed her forward, desperate, practically begging Feyre to keep going. To fuck herself on his tongue. Rhysand groaned when she did it again, craning his head back to cover a better surface area as his mouth and tongue worked feverishly against her canting hips.

His grip tightened when her legs started to shake, weakened by the frenzied heat growing in her stomach, twining up her chest, spinning her heartbeat into overdrive. Could he hear that roaring drumbeat in her ear?

She didn’t think so, not over his own slurping, debauched sounds as he sucked her clit into his mouth and lashed his tongue mercilessly, flicking upwards against her sensitive bud, until her legs threatened to collapse.

“Rhys,” she gasped, pulling on his hair. Feyre tried to pull her hips away and he growled, tugging her closer. “Rhys, I’m gonna—”

Fall, she was going to say. But Rhysand had grabbed her hips and pulled her downwards, refusing to let go or detach his mouth until her knees hit the floor. His grip on her hips guided her forwards, and the next thing she knew she was hovering over his face.

She hesitated for a moment. And Rhys, in his frustration, broke away to gasp, raggedly, “Fuck me, Feyre.”

It was those eyes—wide and dilated—that encouraged her to put her weight on him and move again with abandon. He was such a mess. Hair ruffled from her fingers, full lips swollen and glistening with arousal that coated his cheeks, his chin, his neck. And the second she started grinding against him, he groaned in veneration, used his grip on her hips to help her go faster, harder, while he buried his tongue inside her.

Feyre covered her mouth to smother the scream building in her throat, knowing Rhysand’s friends were just a floor below. But Rhysand released her hip to grab her arm, pulling it away with a wild glint in his eye. The message was clear: I want to hear to you.

Oh god. Oh god, she was coming and—”Rhys,” she gasped as her entire body shuddered, tightening and releasing like a phantom fist around her chest. She whimpered from the force of it, her vision went spotty, and for a moment all she could see were those violet eyes through the soul-bearing pleasure that crested white-hot through her body.

He continued licking her, slower now. Easing her down until he gently guided her off his face.

“Beautiful,” he repeated, rolling them until he was hovering over her. “Fuck, Feyre. You’re incredible. Look at what a mess you made of me.”

Rhys pushed his hips so she could feel the erection tenting his trouser. God, he was still clothed.

“You have a choice to make now,” he murmured, wet mouth close enough that she could smell her own arousal. “I can fuck you right here, on the floor, or you can get on my bed and I can fuck you there.”

He pressed a hot, open mouthed kiss to her lips before he climbed off her body. “I’ll be right back.”

Feyre laid on the floor, stunned, as Rhys quickly disappeared into the bathroom. She heard a drawer open, followed by the sound of a wrapper and—oh. She scrambled to her feet, shaky as they were, and quickly sat on the bed.

Rhysand came out of the bathroom naked, condom ready, smirking at her with those violet eyes as he surveyed the way she’d spread herself on his bed. “Good choice.”

She tried—and failed—not to stare too long at his bobbing erection as he stalked towards her. Feyre had assumed the picture had been an exaggeration, a manipulation of angles. And it was, to some degree, but…

“My eyes are up here, darling,” he teased, pulling her gaze up with a gentle finger beneath her chin. His lips found hers again, and he took his time savoring the taste just as he had done between her legs. When he broke away, they were both panting. “Lay back for me, Feyre.”

Rhysand followed her retreat, pressing a knee to the bed, then the other. Feyre watched, breathless, as crawl over her body, taking his time to drag his eyes—and sometimes his lips—over every inch of skin. “You are devastating,” he said once their faces were level. “How are you even real?”

“How am I real?” His face was still coated in her arousal. He hadn’t even bothered to wash it off his face and as he kissed her again, slow enough that she could taste herself, she had the feeling he didn’t want to.

The head of his cocked nudged her entrance, and Feyre’s gasp was quickly smothered by another kiss as Rhys pushed in, and in, and in. Careful not to hurt her. He grunted into her mouth as he seated himself all the way and ground his hips, nudging the dull head against a cluster of nerves that had Feyre gasping again. He used the sound as an invitation for his tongue and a light thrust, directly into that same spot.

Feyre keened, burying her fingers into scalp, another set into his shoulder blade. He liked it rough, she gathered, as she scraped her nails along his back, she earned herself another thrust. Harder, enough for stars to flood her vision.

He broke this kiss to gasp, “Fuck.” Then, on choked air, “Where did you come from?”

“Marylebone,” she whispered. He laughed. A wonderful breath against her collarbone.

“Thank god for Marylebone.” He kissed her again. “Thank god you missed your train.”

“Thank god I-ah—”

She watched his eyes darken at the sound. “What was that, darling?”

Smug prick.

“Thank god I spilled—”

Feyre cut herself off again, this time in a squeak of surprise as Rhys slipped a hand between their bodies and rubbed his fingers, tauntingly, against her still sensitive clit. “Sorry, fuck. The sounds you make, Feyre.” He nipped her pulse, grinding relentlessly into that single spot. “You have no idea what they’re doing to me.”

She had some idea, if it was anything close to what he was doing to her. She scrambled her nails at his back, uncertain if she was begging for more or less, just something as her mind slipped away from coherency.

“Pretty like this,” he was saying, still driving his hips forward. “So fucking pretty coming undone on my cock, Feyre.”

The sound in the back of her throat was embarrassingly close to a whimper.

“Are you going to come for me?” He whispered, nuzzling her jaw.

Downstairs, she heard Rhysand’s friends begin shouting, Ten… Nine…

Rhys groaned, speeding up the small, tight circles around her clit. “I know exactly how I want to start the New Year,” he said roughly.

The heat was building again, near unbearably this time. “Rhys,” she panted.

Five… four…

“That’s it, Feyre.” His hips had sped up, too, and she could feel his heart hammering against her own as her fingers tangled in his hair.

Three… two…

Rhysand’s mouth surged forward, claiming her lips in one final, breathless kiss as that hot wave of pressure crested and light bursted into fractals behind Feyre’s eyes. She felt herself clench tightly around him, and Rhys groaned into her mouth as he slammed into the hilt and stilled, holding Feyre flush against him.

For a moment, all she could hear was the drumbeat of their pulses, the soft cymbal of their colliding breaths.

Rhys broke the kiss to whisper, “Happy New Year, Feyre darling.”

-

Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt.

Feyre muttered some incoherent complaint at the vibrating sound, turning over to snuggle closer into the warm beneath the covers.

Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt.

She groaned, which earned a soft, sleep-addled chuckle.

The bed shifted as Rhysand rolled over, and a moment later she heard his raspy voice purr, “Feyre Archeron’s phone.”

Feyre lifted her head at that, peeling her bleary eyes open to Rhysand’s handsome smile. He’d propped himself up on one elbow and her phone was braced leisurely against his ear with two fingers.

“Mmm. Feyre darling’s sleeping. She can’t come to the phone right now.”

“Rhys,” she said softly, swallowing her terror at the idea that he was talking to Tamlin. Who else would call her this early, on New Years Day? “Hang up, don’t indulge him.”

He raised a brow, likely at whatever hostile words Tamlin was lashing at him on the other side. “Feyre’s house key?” Rhys reached out an arm, ran his fingers slowly along Feyre’s shoulder, down her collarbone. “Well of course she wasn’t at her house. She was at mine. Post it through my letterbox.”

Rhys hung up, tossing the phone to the bed with an expression of distaste. He glanced up, and must have read the worry in Feyre’s expression because his face instantly softened. “Don’t worry, darling. If he comes by I’ll have Cass and Az answer the door. Have you seen them? They’ll get your house key back.”

Tamlin had gone to her house.

The smile Rhys offered her was gentle. His hand slipped around her shoulder, inviting her to rest her head against his naked chest. She could hear his steady heartbeat as his fingers wound into her hair, stroking soothingly over her scalp. “Thank goodness for the train strikes, hmm?”

“I hear the railways are closed today,” she said, quietly. A subtle way of asking if she could stay. Not just because Tamlin was apparently at her house and the thought of possibly being alone with him made her feel nauseous, but because… she liked it here. And she wanted to meet Rhysand’s friends.

The fingers in her hair paused.

Feyre lifted her head to gauge Rhysand’s expression.

She was met with a shameless grin as he said, “And tomorrow. Actually, I heard they’ll be closed all week.”

[finitevoid]

The problem is that it’s entirely metatextual. uma, the character, does not share any dialogue with carlos, the character. I’m not sure they ever even really acknowledge each others existence, beyond the fact that they are aware of each other. uma is an antagonist and carlos is, ultimately, a side character of minor note. the only reason uma was chosen for this scene is because china ann mcclain is, quite literally, one of 3 returning actors. of the returning actors, she is the best choice to manufacture a connection between her and carlos. I think it’s indicative of something that they are so bereft of connection to the prior movies that they have to go out of their way to hallucinate an understanding between uma and carlos that didn’t exist. All of the people who played characters who loved carlos have pointedly abstained from even acknowledging that this movie exists. so we just get to watch china ann mcclain pretend to cry while stock music swells in the background

Ok, so who is this for? the children watching this movie, ages 7-12, probably do not know who cameron boyce was. the teens watching this movie might, but with the last descendants film having come out a quick 5 years ago, it’s not fresh in their minds. people who were teens when d3 came out are now adults. what is this scene serving, exactly? What is it adding? How is it relevant, to anyone? I mean, it’s relevant to me, and more generally to us, but how much is the average viewer of this movie going to know about cameron boyce & his art?

so in a movie that has so little connection to its franchise’s prior installments that it has an entirely new cast, completely rewrites the canon, fucks indiscriminately with the lore, and pointedly doesn’t reference the events of the prior movies at all… still makes a point to reference a character who’s absence would not be felt. not by its audience, not by its characters, and not by its worldbuilding…

Its metatext. It exists to satisfy an arbitrary real world grief requirement. put an awkward photo of carlos de vil in a gaudy picture frame, hang it on the wall and play sad music. one of cameron boyce’s last roles dies with him.

I don’t know. I’m sympathetic to the fact that there’s no winning here. Don’t reference carlos, people get mad. Reference him being alive, people get mad. Reference him being dead, people (me) get mad (weird on my tumblr blog). it’s just such a jagged portrayal. In a movie so desperate for personal identity that it scrubs itself of its previous canon, it grinds itself backwards to make a cursory nod to a real life loss of life. I find it more vexing than anything.

at the same time, like, this didn’t have to be a descendants movie. Just call it something else. We can have more weird crossover shit involving stupid disney heroes having offspring. It’s fine. It would’ve been fine. would’ve run the risk of selling less merchandise, maybe, but it wouldn’t have been a movie with identity problems worse than my closeted gender situation. And it wouldn’t have had the unfortunate baggage of one of the most beloved rising acting stars passing away just after finishing the last movie.

I think it’s indicative, somewhat, of the motivations of the people making this movie that the main cast’s wishes for the franchise to be over have been summarily ignored. Cameron Boyce’s wish to move on from descendants into more adult work will never be fulfilled, so I guess it’s a twisted kind of irony that disney has insisted on making the last franchise he worked on a shambling reanimated corpse.

I have never personally mourned this man, because I didn’t know him, but somehow it all just feels. Strange. Maybe we should let his legacy live on, as it was when he passed? Maybe we should let the art he graced us with, in life, speak for itself as in memoriam of him. or I guess we can watch china ann mcclain stiffly cry while stock music swells. Whatever